


What Spring Does With Cherry Trees

by tomlinsoul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Chronic Pain, Crying, Disability, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Mobility Aids, Molly's a sweetheart, Pain, Pet Names, Physical Disability, Please tell me if I haven't tagged anything, Post-Reichenbach, Protective Greg, Protective John Watson, Protective Mycroft Holmes, SO MUCH FLUFF, Top John Watson, Vulnerable Sherlock, everyone loves Sherlock, fibromyalgia, flares, hospital visits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25918648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomlinsoul/pseuds/tomlinsoul
Summary: 18 months into his new and settled romance with John, Sherlock faces a new challenge when he develops debilitating symptoms that leave him in more than a few tricky situations. Luckily, his doctor happens to be rather devoted to him.or; the one where Sherlock develops fibromyalgia and shit goes down.(John knows from whispered secrets in the cover of the dark, in post-sex hazes, that losing the one thing that makes him valuable to ‘normal’ people is his biggest fear. It’s the one thing that makes him tolerable to every other person he’s ever encountered, “present company excluded,” he had confided before John had kissed him with a searing heat. He’d whispered back, “you will always be valuable to me, Sherlock Holmes. I love your damn mind, but I love you more.”)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 115





	1. His Kisses Falling Over Me Like Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fandom has some of the best disability representation in fanfiction, but I felt like it was lacking in the chronic illness category, so here is this fic to help rectify some of that loss. I wrote about the condition I have because it’s what I feel I have the authority to write on, however, I am not Sherlock and he is not me. His symptom presentation and treatments do not mirror my own exactly.
> 
> *IMPORTANT MEDICAL DISCLAIMERS*
> 
> 1) I need to clarify that no two people experience chronic illness the same. Please don’t assume that everybody with fibro has the symptoms Sherlock does and wants to be treated the way he is in this fic. Not every chronically ill person identifies as disabled, or would be clarified as such by the UK government. In Sherlock’s case, his symptoms are severe enough to fall into that category.
> 
> 2) I am not a doctor. Any diagnostic procedures, medications and treatments described in this fic are not to be taken as the answer for every case of fibro. They are taken from some of my lived experience (which is hazy at times because, you know, I’m sick) as well as google. Sherlock’s previous addiction would likely change his treatment plan, but I’m not really sure how so I did my best!
> 
> 3) Furthermore, doctors are kind and helpful to Sherlock. This is NOT the usual experience for people with chronic illnesses - especially women and POC. Sherlock being a white male means doctors are much more likely to take his pain seriously and treat it accordingly. 
> 
> Set around 3-4 years post-Reichenbach with complete canon divergence, aka NO mention of Mary and few references to actual canon events beyond places/characters.
> 
> Lastly, a huge thank you to my beta, Beth, @ilikestopwatches on [tumblr](https://ilikestopwatches.tumblr.com/) for helping me get this fic AO3 ready. You’re an absolute gem!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter, because yes I am that bitch:  
> Nearness of you - Norah Jones  
> Changing tides - The Fray  
> When I look at you - Miley Cyrus  
> Nothing - Bruno Major  
> You are in love - Taylor Swift  
> Sunflower, Vol 6 - Harry Styles

I even believe that you own the universe.  
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.  
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Everyday You Play; Pablo Neruda

At first, Sherlock had hardly noticed it. He generally tries to ignore the happenings of his body, choosing instead to focus on the great things his mind has the capability to harness, but eventually it catches up to him. He wakes up one morning with fatigue plaguing his body, his usual sprightly energy depleted as he drags himself to the kitchen to watch John rushing around for work. On a usual day, it’s likely his partner would pick up on his exhausted behaviour, but judging by his skewed cufflinks, unshaven face and no sign of breakfast in sight, he’s running late. 

“I’ll be back by 5, love,” John says as Sherlock sits down at the table, trying desperately to keep his head off the wooden surface. “Don’t blow anything up, will you?” He presses a gentle kiss to his hair, before drinking the last dregs of his tea and rushing out of the door. 

221B sits in an eerie silence as the sounds of John’s morning routine are stamped out by the slamming of the front door. Sherlock knows he should get up from the table; he needs a shower and there’s an experiment on the coffee table that requires his attention, but he feels as though he’s nailed to the chair. The fatigue has been creeping up on him slowly over the past few weeks, but this morning it’s overwhelming. Sherlock can only think of his bed, and the warm duvets and pillows that await him there. Not even the decaying liver cells in the petri dish only metres away appeal to him. If Lestrade called with a case, he doesn’t think he’d go. He just wants to sleep.

★

The door clatters open at 4.50 and Sherlock opens his eyes to the noises of John shedding the day’s work as he peels off his outer layers. He can usually tell by the weight of John’s footsteps and the way he enters the flat how his day has been, but he’s too tired to tell tonight. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” John says, voice tinged with deliberately concealed concern, closing the bedroom door and sitting on the edge of the bed. He runs his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair and he can feel the tension ease out of him as he leans into his boyfriend’s touch. “You tired?”

Sherlock drags himself into a vaguely sitting position as John swings his legs onto the bed to sit next to him and pulls Sherlock close, his head resting on John’s chest. “Yeah,” Sherlock forces himself to say. He knows that realistically, admitting that he’s tired and not feeling very well is likely to worry John more than denying it, but lying just seems to take up more energy than telling the truth and being cuddled is incentive enough for honesty.

“I’m sorry, baby,” John says, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s curls. “Is there anything I can do?”

Sherlock shakes his head, opting instead to curl his arms around John’s waist and pull him closer. “Stay.”

“Okay, I’m right here. Do you want to hear about my day?” Sometimes, Sherlock scoffs and insists that he could deduce it all from a cursory glance towards his boyfriend and knows how to respond as a result, so exchanging such anecdotes isn’t strictly necessary, but he doesn’t do that today. He nods his head and relaxes further into John and the comforting smell of his boyfriend, which just screams ‘home’. 

★

Sherlock wakes the next morning feeling like the fog has lifted and he silently rejoices as he brushes his teeth, watching his reflection in the mirror. He can’t help the smile on his face as he walks into the kitchen to see John sat at the table with a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea, sitting across from him at the table and waiting for him to look up. “Morning,” Sherlock says impatiently. 

“Good morning, love,” John says, cheerily. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Quite,” Sherlock grins. “It must have been a bug or something.”

John doesn’t quite look convinced but he smiles anyway, and leans across the table to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Well whatever it was,” he says gently, “I’m just relieved you’re feeling better, darling.” Sherlock preens at the attention, cheeks flushing just the same after 19 months of the same treatment. “What are you going to have for breakfast?”

Sherlock picks up on the pointed comment but disinterestedly waves his hand. “I’m not hungry.” Secretly, he’s grown to love the back and forth of John trying to force him to eat while he stubbornly digs his heels in. (It’s probably because it reminds him just how much he cares for him, how he takes care of him in both big and little ways.) 

“Come on, love.” John rolls his eyes and folds his paper before rising to the counter top and opening the bread bin. “A slice of brown toast with peanut butter and banana? I have to get nutrition into that body of yours somehow.”

Sherlock reluctantly agrees to appease John but, truthfully, the mere suggestion of any food at the moment is enough to make him queasy. He feels much more human this morning, but there’s still something that doesn’t feel quite right. Still, when John places his breakfast down in front of him, he clears his plate before kissing him as an expression of gratitude and heading to the bedroom. 

He knows John is working the afternoon/evening shift at the clinic, so his morning will likely consist of finishing the paper and doing the crossword and sudoku before turning to the most recent edition of the physical medicine journal. He’ll probably then fiddle about on his blog or watch the TV shows Sherlock refuses to watch with him. In essence, he isn’t likely to be disturbed before 11am, when John comes to say goodbye. He lies down flat on the floor next to the bed, which helps to quell his nausea slightly. Truly, he needs to think. 

Sherlock has never had to give his body much thought before. There have been aches and pains over the years; he’s certainly felt his age in his joints at times and regular ailments have plagued him as they do other people, no matter how much he wishes and insists he’s above such things. They’ve always gone away on their own. It doesn’t make any sense that all of a sudden there are very real symptoms that are getting in the way of his life with seemingly no explanation. They haven’t gone away on their own, not this time - if anything, they’ve only increased in intensity. Anxiety suddenly consumes him as he considers the impact of this on everything in his life. He doesn’t know what John will think, how the Work will continue, how his experiments will fare without his constant attention. Very suddenly, everything he’s built so carefully over the last two years feels as though it’s crumbling beneath his feet, and he’s not quite sure how to fix it. 

Despite feeling nauseous and tired in the morning, by the time John comes home Sherlock has been to both Bart’s and Tesco and finished his liver cell experiment. He’s doing a fine job at pretending he feels a million times better, and to be honest, he thinks it might actually be working. “You alright, love?” John asks as he hangs his coat on the rack and walks into the kitchen. 

Sherlock leaves his elemental chemistry book on the table in order to stand up and kiss John. “Yeah, I’m good. How was your day?” He knows, really, John has always been an open book, but he’s learned that these kinds of questions he would once scoff at and label tedious rather please his partner, and so he’s taken it upon himself to ask more frequently. 

“It was okay,” John sighs, wrapping Sherlock into a quick, squeezy embrace before heading to the kettle. “Nothing too interesting. Diane finally sorted out the personnel issue so my shifts should become a little bit more stable, which is good. Oh, and I saw three patients with bronchitis which is unusual in one day.” He pauses a moment to laugh. “God. I’m boring you, aren’t I? I’ll fix us some pasta and we can watch the telly for a bit, how does that sound?”

“You don’t bore me, John,” Sherlock frowns. “Granted, if anybody else tried to tell me about such a mundane day I might feel the urge to slap them, but you’re my… life partner, or whatever they say. For some reason, you are the first and only person I would ever let tell me about personnel issues, let alone actually listen and care.”

John’s face does the fond, melty expression it has a tendency to slide into whenever Sherlock expresses his feelings, and he walks back over to him for another hug. “Aww,” John coos, leaning up to kiss Sherlock’s wrinkled nose, “I love you, too, sweetheart. Now go and set Unforgotten up on the TV and get the blankets ready. I’ll be there in 15.” 

Sherlock’s not really sure how he managed to get through another night of trying to satiate John’s overactive libido. He doesn’t know how he, a virgin until his first time moaning under John, managed to commit to a man in his forties with the sex drive of a first year uni student. However it happened, he ends up lying next to a snoring John while he tries desperately not to cry at the amount of pain flooding his hips. The pain hadn’t been anywhere near as noticeable over the past few weeks, it had felt like a far away event, easy to ignore, almost as if it was happening to someone else. Apparently, all it took was half an hour of reasonably gentle, definitely loving sex to unlock the dam of pain his mind was likely holding back. 

At 2.30am, almost three hours since John fell back on his pillow and into a deep slumber, Sherlock hauls himself out of bed and stumbles through the bedroom to the loo, having to force his legs to move as they protest in pain. As quietly as he can, he fumbles through the medicine cabinet and finds a box of paracetamol and an old codeine tablet from when John first moved in and pain management was a foreign concept. Sherlock knows that taking an opiate as a former addict is one of the poorer decisions he’s made since committing to John, but it’s also much less potent and addictive than other drugs he’s sure he could find if he rummages through John’s medicine bag, so he swallows it anyway. 

Somehow, he makes it back to bed and into the following morning without John finding out. 

★

The events of the third week of January fall to the back of Sherlock’s mind as the symptoms quieten and he gets back to his life. He makes it to almost a month before the new ones set in, and most inconveniently, it happens at a crime scene in one of the more humiliating events in his career. The worst part, though, is the look on John’s face. He’s knelt over the body of a 66 year old grandmother when a spell of dizziness hits him so suddenly he almost falls back. Barely managing to stay in his crouched position, Sherlock tries to frantically blink the world back into focus; he tries to stop the instinct to lay horizontally and wait for the stars in his vision to leave. In front of John, Lestrade and eighteen Scotland Yarders, however, that is simply not an option. 

He can feel John’s eyes on him. Luckily Lestrade is off talking to the head of the forensic team, having given up watching Sherlock’s every move on his crime scenes a good while ago, but he can’t escape John’s worried gaze. It’s likely that none of the other thick-skulled police around them have noticed his subtle change in movements and behaviour, which is approximately the only thing he has going for him. 

He forces himself to stand up slowly and waits for the ground to steady beneath him before he makes his way to Lestrade and passes on the deductions he had managed to harvest before feeling as though he was hung upside down and expected to function just the same. The knowledge he’d acquired was approximately 70% of the deductions he would have been able to make if he wasn’t forced to stop, but Lestrade isn’t sharp enough to pick up on that, so he’s given a grateful nod as he turns to leave, John hurrying to catch up with him.

“Sherlock,” John says in that tone, the one that tells Sherlock immediately that he wants no part of such a conversation, “what happened earlier?” 

They’re sitting in their chairs with cups of tea that John made in front of the fire that John had built while Sherlock had sat waiting, lost in thought. The dizziness had passed almost as soon as he got in the cab, but turning around and heading back to the crime scene would be humiliating; it would force him to admit to absolute imbeciles that he really was human. That was knowledge he preferred only a select few to be privy to, thank you very much.

“Nothing, John,” he sighs, taking a sip of tea. “I got bored. Lestrade will solve it easily with the clues I passed on, and it was merely a 5 at best.” He stands, partly to fetch the book he is currently combing through for the errors in the research he knows are there, and partly to prove that he’s fine. He knows that John is fully aware that he’s lying, but he also knows that John is not concerned enough to risk the nuclear war he likely believes he will bring to fruition if he pushes Sherlock. 

As predicted, John silently pulls out his crossword and continues drinking his tea. They don’t speak about it for the rest of the evening. 

★

Around six months into his relationship with John, Sherlock decided to start pulling his weight. It was a calculated decision based on a number of factors, including the numerous pointed comments and muttered annoyances as John complained that he did all the work around the flat, as well as a rather heated argument one evening that led to John sleeping in the upstairs bedroom for the first time in months and Sherlock tossing and turning in their cold bed. Supplementing such factors was Sherlock’s long-standing curiosity into self-improvement. He had never seriously considered it before, but the idea of being a better person - or, more specifically, whether he could actually become a better person - had always intrigued him. Now he had a reason to try.

Since John works at the clinic 5 days a week in varying hours, they came to an agreement that Sherlock would complete the grocery shop every week, provided John wrote the list. Which is how he finds himself on the Circle Line on a Tuesday afternoon at the end of February, heading to the closest big Tesco. The nearest corner shops didn’t cut it with John’s extensive lists, so he is forced onto the sticky, crowded tube at least once a week, hurtling towards Cromwell Road as London bustles above them. This week, however, feels different to usual. Since the worsening of his symptoms and the apparently random nature of their appearance - although Sherlock feels their presence constantly on a lower, subdued level, becoming a new normal plane of existence - he hasn’t liked to stray too far from the safety of Baker Street, only venturing to places he knows that he can vacate quickly back to the flat. Even the 18 minute journey to Bart’s felt risky. 

Sherlock is in the tinned food aisle, examining the contents and nutritional benefits of two different brands of black bean when he’s proven right for being so worried. The low level pain he’d felt in his left leg since he woke up explodes into an unbearable throbbing and the breath is knocked out of him for a moment as his knee threatens to buckle. He feels the colour drain from his face and sweat begins to consume him as the menial sounds of afternoon shoppers grow deafening. 

It’s moments later that he realises he’s on the floor and there are a number of concerned faces in his line of vision, though they’re tinged white with the visual disturbance the pain is bringing him. “Sir?” he hears someone say, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He’s clearly not. In that moment, all he can think is to tap the pocket his phone is in and say, “ring John.”

★

They manage to avoid a trip to the hospital once John arrives at Tesco, pushing through the paramedics and crowd of morbidly curious onlookers and assures the medics that he’s a doctor and would ensure he got Sherlock to see a doctor properly as soon as possible. With the help of a supermarket wheelchair and the gas and air the medics had administered, they manage to get Sherlock into a cab and back to 221B with relative ease, considering the situation. 

John sits in the middle seat of the taxi so Sherlock can lean against him for the journey home, pressing kisses into his hair and caressing his arm softly. Sherlock isn’t aware of a great deal of his surroundings, can’t feel much over the course of the drugs in his system and the pain still screaming at him, sending explosive rays up and down his side, but he can hear John’s heartbeat, can feel his gentle touches and knows he’s safe. It’s a stark contrast to the amalgamation of emotions he’d felt lying propped against a shelf in the tinned aisle in Tesco. It had been hard to take stock of how he was feeling over the roar of pain, but he hadn’t missed the pure, unadulterated terror. He was alone, he was scared, he was vulnerable. More than anything, he was Johnless. 

Somehow, John manages to manoeuvre his partner up the stairs and into the flat, taking him straight to the sofa. “Okay, sweetheart, is that okay? Are you comfortable?” he asks, once he’s wrapped a blanket around him and propped him up on the throw pillows. 

External comfort is the most Sherlock knows he can hope for at the moment, so he nods. The drugs had worn off gradually during the cab ride, and the world slowly comes back into focus as John starts fussing around the flat. He watches as he digs around the kitchen looking for something, until he pulls a forgotten hot water bottle out of one of the corner cupboards, boiling the kettle to make two cups of tea and fill the bottle. As he waits for the kettle to finish, John leans against the counter and stares into an absent middle ground, lost in thought. (It amuses Sherlock a little to watch him jump when the kettle clicks loudly as it turns off.)

John brings the two steaming mugs over to the sofa, placing Sherlock’s on the coffee table before moving to sit in the chair next to him. Slightly outraged, Sherlock makes a whiny little sound and reaches out to John for him to come and accompany him on ths sofa. Naturally, John complies quickly with the insistent demand, eyes melting at the display of affection meant for his eyes only. Sherlock only ever lets his guard down around John; he’s the only one - with perhaps the exception of Mycroft - who has ever seen him in a vulnerable, emotional state. Right now, he’s scared. And when he’s scared, he needs John. 

“Why don’t you come and lay on me like this,” John says, as he tries to arrange them both on the relatively small sofa without jostling Sherlock too much so as to cause him pain. Sherlock happily complies, abandoning his tea that he knows John only made as a ritualistic, proroguing gesture in favour of shifting into his partner, burying his nose into John’s sweater, inhaling the comforting scent he wishes constantly he could bottle and keep. “That’s it, darling,” John says, pressing a gentle kiss into Sherlock’s hair. “Are you comfortable enough?”

Sherlock nods, and they settle into one another as silence falls on the room, thick with the weighty anticipation of the situation. “I thought I could ignore it,” he says after a little while of searching for the right place to start. “I thought it would go away. It was small at the beginning. Now it rather seems that it is a matter that requires some more… serious attention.” John listens patiently, not interrupting in Sherlock’s pauses, not ceasing his caresses of his arms, waist, hair - anywhere within reach.

“It’s exhaustion, nausea and pain at its core, I believe,” he continues. “I do suspect, however, that whether through the distraction of these such symptoms or stemming from a separate source, my mind is occasionally impaired. A fog settles over my brain at times, and thinking, reasoning is a challenge. Of course, this hasn’t happened many times or to a worrying severity, but given the trajectory of my other symptoms, it does give me a cause for concern.”

Admitting that his mind was not working at its usual capacity was not something Sherlock took lightly, and was it anybody else but John currently reassuring him through silent touches and gentle kisses, he wouldn’t have done so. Sherlock knows that John can hear the fear creeping into his voice; he doesn’t have the energy to control it, really. He also knows that John will understand exactly why that fear is there, he knows from whispered secrets in the cover of the dark, in post-sex hazes, that losing the one thing that makes him valuable to ‘normal’ people is his biggest fear. It’s the one thing that makes him tolerable to every other person he’s ever encountered, “present company excluded,” he had confided, before John had kissed him with a searing heat. He’d whispered back, “you will always be valuable to me, Sherlock Holmes. I love your damn mind, but I love you more.”

“Stomach pain and the occasional headache have also been making an appearance over the last few weeks, and providing the wider circumstances I would posit that it’s likely they are connected to the more persistent symptoms.”

Sherlock lapses into quiet as he relaxes deeper into John’s arms. He can almost hear the cogs working in John’s brain as he tries to process the information both as a partner and a doctor himself. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he murmurs eventually, lips pressed to Sherlock’s head. “I’m sorry that you’ve been suffering so much and I’m sorry I didn’t spot it - that I didn’t try and help you sooner. I’ve let you down, my love.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sherlock smiles against John’s shirt. “I’ve always been good at concealing things. I didn’t want you to know because I didn’t want to believe that it was serious enough for you to find out.”

“God, you’re an idiot,” John says fondly. “I’d want to know if you had a hangnail, sweetheart, just so I could kiss it better and have an excuse to coddle you for a day. How many times am I going to have to explain to you that I love you? I’m in your corner.” Sherlock responds only by squeezing John’s waist and pressing a soft kiss to John’s jumper. “We do have to consider where this leaves us, though, Sherlock.”

“Can’t we just cuddle?” Sherlock whines, voice petulant. “I don’t want to think about it right now.”

“Darling, you just collapsed in a super--”

“I didn’t collapse, that's a gross over exaggeration,” Sherlock argues, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I or did I not have to leave the surgery this afternoon because my partner was laying on the floor of a Tesco tinned food aisle, overwhelmed with pain? Could you or could you not stand up?” John points out as Sherlock just huffs in response. “This sounds to me like a chronic illness, okay? That’s my first, GP-minded, instinctual reaction. However, the symptoms you’re describing could be indicative of a much more pressing or dangerous problem and we have to explore that possibility. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come with you to see Dr Cheboi to discuss our options.”

Sherlock lifts his head at that. “No, I want you to handle it.”

“Sherlock, lovely, I’m way too close to this. I just see you in pain and can’t think about anything else, I won’t be able to be impartial enough to actually get to the root cause of the problem. And you like Dr Cheboi, remember? When you met him at the Christmas party, you told me that he was ‘decidedly not an idiot’.”

“Doesn’t mean, I prefer him over you,” Sherlock grumbles, but lays his head back down and concedes. 

“I know, sweetheart. But we’ll go and see Dr Cheboi and start to see what we can do about this, yeah?” John says, voice gentle and reassuring. He reaches up a hand to brush a curl off Sherlock’s forehead. “Why don’t you have a little nap while I finish the last few chapters of this book, hey?”

Sherlock can never resist gentle John, not when his entire being seems to envelop Sherlock and pull him into his sleepy, safe aura. He’s asleep before John’s turned the first page. 

★

Sherlock spots the ajar knocker before John does, as he’s reluctantly helped out of the car. Damned hip pain. If he hadn’t been expecting it he’d roll his eyes but he’s lived long enough to know that not much goes on in the United Kingdom without Mycroft’s knowledge, much less his closely surveilled brother having a minor medical emergency in the Cromwell Road Tesco. When John spots it, however, his reaction is marginally less mild. “For fucks’ sake,” he swears. “Can he not keep his bollocks to himself for one fucking minute?” Sherlock just smiles at him placatingly. (Adoringly.) “Suppose we should face the music,” John sighs, before smiling back at Sherlock and offering his arm in a half-romantic half-medically-necessitated manner.

Mycroft’s stood in the middle of the flat when they enter, twirling his umbrella with a smug expression painted on his face. He always likes to appear as though he doesn’t engage in such menial behaviour as sitting or resting but Sherlock spots the slight compression on the sofa cushion and the easy way Mycroft only holds himself for the first five minutes he’s standing before his joints stiffen and the muscles in his upper back tighten slightly. “Gentlemen,” he greets.

Making his way to the sofa while John heads straight for the kitchen for tea without acknowledging Mycroft’s presence, Sherlock nods his head back in lieu of a greeting in kind. He’s been expecting his interfering older brother to show up, but it doesn’t necessarily make the situation easier to explain, nor does it make it easier to decide whether to hide the pain he’s feeling and expend unnecessary energy, or reveal it to the man who could tell anyway. On a matter of pride, he decides on the first, ignoring his body’s protests as he holds it in a way that is not horizontal on the sofa or resting on John. 

“Would you care to enlighten me on the situation I had to watch unfold on a Tesco security camera, brother mine?” he asks, not unkindly. His voice still carries the same air of self-importance that never leaves, but it’s not as condescending or irritating as it might be otherwise. Sherlock isn’t sure whether to appreciate the brief reprieve of his brother’s usual unbearable behaviour, or mourn the fact that somebody - Mycroft Holmes no less - is already treating him differently because of this… betrayal from his transport. 

“I’m sure I can’t tell you anything you wouldn’t be able to deduce from the footage yourself, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs, voice deliberately snooty but conveying a small amount of the exhaustion and frustration he feels, running away from him before he can catch it. 

Mycroft sighs in turn and drops at least some of the facade, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose as his shoulders sag and he sits in one of the armchairs next to the sofa. “Yes,” he concedes, which is not something he does often, “I suppose you’re right. If Doctor Watson only learned of this yesterday, then I suppose I can’t hope to have known sooner, although I am rather disappointed in myself that I didn’t pick up on any--”

“Oh for God’s sake, not you too?” Sherlock groans, throwing his head back in frustration. 

“Sherlock, I think you’ll find that my skill in deduction is rather more robust than Dr Watson’s,” Mycroft sighs, in the same snooty manner his brother did only moments prior. He pauses for a moment, looking away. Everything about this conversation is completely throwing Sherlock off; Mycroft’s behaviour is unlike anything he’s seen since they were teenagers. “I will offer any resources you need to get to the bottom of this, although I rather suspect that John has some understanding of what to expect. Naturally, you have access to private healthcare in order to run the tests you need. Other than that, Sherlock, all I can offer are sympathies, which I rather believe will be vastly more appreciated when coming from Dr Watson than your ‘interfering’ older brother, as you so lovingly put it.”

He rises from the chair and smooths the creases from his suit just as John enters the room with three freshly brewed cups of tea. “Off so soon, Mycroft,” John says, not trying to feign disappointment, but simply leaving his mug on the tray while passing one to Sherlock and taking a sip from another. “I’m sure we won’t be mourning the pleasure of your company for long.”

“A pleasure as always, Dr Watson.” He picks up his umbrella and exits the flat, leaving the air lighter as the two remaining men sigh a breath of relief. 

“Arrogant prick,” John mumbles into his mug once Mycroft’s footsteps have clearly exited the building. 

Sherlock just hums in response, taking a sip of the comforting tea that always - without fail - tastes better when made by John. 

“Are you going to accept his offer?” John asks lightly, no pressure in his voice. Sherlock has always been amazed by the way John just asks questions - not because he wants him to do a certain thing or think a certain way, it’s not borne from pressure - he asks because he genuinely wants to know what Sherlock is thinking, wants to know how to support him and back him up. It makes him think of when they lie in bed at night and John whispers to him: ‘I’m in your corner. You know that, right?’ And Sherlock does. For the first time, he’s met somebody that is completely, without doubt, unfailingly in his corner, who could walk away any time but chooses not to.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, and for some embarrassing, humiliating reason, he feels tears prick the backs of his eyes. “I’m tired, I don’t feel well. I don’t know what the right thing to do is.” He feels his stomach clench as it hits him just how crap he feels, how much the trip to the doctor’s surgery and the conversation with Mycroft took out of him. As soon as his brother had closed the door behind him he had relaxed into a much more comfortable position and stopped pretending, but the effort had winded him. 

“Sweetheart, it’s okay,” John says, pain in his eyes as he watches the man he loves hurt so badly. He puts his cup of tea on the side table and carefully maneuvers himself onto the sofa next to Sherlock, pulling him close. “I know it’s been a tiring morning, love, but you don’t need to make any big decisions now, okay? Dr Cheboi has referred us for initial MRI scanning, so let’s start there. If we decide we’re sick of waiting we can ask to have the referral changed to a private hospital, but right now we can just do nothing. You’re going to finish this cup of tea, and then you’re going to have a little nap. Then maybe later you’ll feel up to looking through some cold cases or recording the findings from the saliva coagulation experiment you did the other day. And if you don’t, if you just need to nap or read or watch some tv, then that’s absolutely okay, as well, yeah?” John carefully runs his hands through Sherlocks curls before kissing his head gently. “Finish your tea, love.”

How the fuck did I get so lucky? is the last thought that runs through his mind before his eyes close as he’s surrounded by John and the safe, comforting smell of home. 

★

The next few weeks, after Sherlock decides to take Mycroft’s offer and is thrust into the world of London’s network of elite private hospitals, are draining for the both of them. John is patient and ever-present; he takes time off to attend every single consultation, test or exam and helps Sherlock through the good and bad days, but they can both feel the tension that it’s putting on their relationship. It still feels new, is the thing. After their reconciliation following Sherlock’s resurrection it had been a fairly natural progression into a romantic entanglement, but it was different for both of them. For John, it was his first proper relationship with another man, and one of the longest he’s ever really managed to maintain. For Sherlock, of course, this was his first time embarking upon any kind of relationship. While they feel completely comfortable in each other, the actual heart and soul of their relationship requires effort and work, as most do. 

It’s after the second MRI that things escalate. Sherlock is in agony after having to lay completely still for 50 minutes under the machine and with the help of John manages to crawl to the sofa where one of the three heated blankets they’d purchased remained permanently plugged in. “There you are, love,” John says quietly as he tucks the blanket around Sherlock’s lower back and pelvis. Sherlock knows he can sense his grotty mood and is trying not to upset him, but he can also read John’s simmering frustration. It isn’t an ideal combination. 

“Here I am,” Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth. It’s not got quite the usual malice of his sharp remarks, it certainly hasn’t reached pre-committed-relationship levels, but it’s also not devoid of irritation either. He’s worked very hard over the last few years at not lashing out at John when he’s just trying to help - or ever, even, if he can help it - but constant agonising pain and fatigue were not factored into his original efforts. This is a new dynamic for the both of them. All of a sudden, and so damn humiliatingly, Sherlock feels tears shine in his eyes. They’re largely borne from frustration; frustration at his body betraying him, frustration at how things between him and John were so good, and he doesn’t know if John will stay, or if this will prove too much for the both of them. At the thought of life without John, the tears actually spill over. Despite his attempts to lean his head back and hide his display of weakness, John, of course, wordlessly climbs onto the sofa and pulls Sherlock into his arms. 

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers into Sherlock’s hair. “It’s not easy, but we’re on our way to a diagnosis, yeah? Then we’ll have a cure or management or treatment and things will get better. I’m here, sweetheart.” 

Sherlock, for his part, simply cries silently onto John’s shoulder. He wraps his legs around John, clinging to him like he’s the only damn thing he has left, and in a way, it really does feel like that. 

It’s only later, when his eyes are dry and itchy, that they readjust into a more comfortable position, and Sherlock buries his nose into the coffee-coloured jumper John’s wearing. “You smell good,” he sighs, voice croaky from exhaustion and the embarrassing sobs he’d just soaked into the wool he’s currently nuzzling his face into. 

John chuckles, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “It’s probably that new cologne I bought last week,” he murmurs.

“No,” Sherlock insists quietly, not lifting his face from its woolly abode. “I think it’s just you.” 

The next day his new consultant, Dr Sosa, rings with a medication proposition. John’s sat in his chair, drinking his tea and reading the current affairs section in the Guardian while Sherlock snoozes the morning away after a restless night’s sleep when the phone rings on the coffee table. He quickly wakes him up and sits next to the sofa in the chair before answering the call. 

“Hi Dr Sosa, this is John speaking. Sherlock’s here too but he’s just woken up from a nap so I’ll do the talking until he becomes opinionated enough to speak up,” John chuckles, fondly returning Sherlock’s lazy glare.

“Morning, gentlemen,” he replies, voice serious but with a good-humoured tone to it. He’d taken to Sherlock right away when they’d met in person for the first time the day after they’d called to accept Mycroft’s offer. Well. John had called to accept Mycroft’s offer while Sherlock lay face down on the sofa, petulantly listening to the conversation. “Sherlock, I’m ringing with a suggestion for a new medication. I re-read the notes that Dr Cheboi sent me after your referral to the clinic and I’ve noticed that you mentioned a form of restless leg syndrome, is that right?”

“Yes,” John confirms after a second to see if Sherlock will deign to reply. “The later it gets in the evening the more his legs are so painful they need to constantly move. He also said it felt like his whole body was vibrating or turning over on itself causing some nausea.”

“Okay, well, I’m going to suggest a prescription of gabapentin. I wasn’t overly convinced it would address enough of his symptoms at the start to prescribe it, but gabapentin can also help with neuropathic pain, migraines and some report it just generally improving how they feel in themselves as well as being effective in the treatment of RLS,” Dr Sosa says, rather matter of fact. 

“Okay,” John says slowly, trying to recall the basic facts of the drug. “It’s not all that safe for people with a history of addiction, though, is it?” He receives an indignant snort from the sofa lump, which he knows is meant to convey his age-old adage, user, not an addict, John. 

“It has a low risk of addiction, yes., but really it’s negligible. On balance, I do think that this is a much better way to try and get Sherlock’s pain under control than a prescription of codeine, for example. We could potentially explore that route in the future, but for now, we should try a preventative measure such as gabapentin which has a much lower rate of addiction. We’ll start on a reasonably low dose and we can adjust it as needed.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” John says, not entirely convinced but recognising the benefits from a medical standpoint. “What do you think, Sherlock?”

Sherlock graciously lifts his face from the sofa cushion. “I’m willing to give it a try,” he says after a minute of deliberation, before returning his face to its fabric home. 

“Great,” Dr Sosa says. “Now there is a risk of low mood, depression or suicidal ideation on gabapentin, and given Sherlock’s history and very intelligent mind this could be cause for concern. If that’s the case, we can consider treating the side effects if the benefits are strong enough to warrant it. Shall I issue a prescription?”

John looks to Sherlock to confirm, before issuing his go ahead, smiling. It feels like a step forward. 

(The blood tests Dr Sosa orders are much more expansive than the ones originally ordered by Dr Cheboi. The appointment is also much more awkward, as the phlebotomist remarks that Sherlock’s veins are just perfect for needles. Sherlock can hardly keep a straight face, but even John breaks when she later comments that it’s as if he’s been practicing for it his whole life. “How did she not notice the track marks?” Sherlock giggles as they leave the hospital.

“She had to have been doing it on purpose, right?” John wheezes.)

★

Sex, naturally, is not the same. When John had found out about the night towards the beginning of the symptoms’ onset and of Sherlock’s trip to the medicine cabinet as a result, he’d been so dismayed Sherlock thought his heart might break. No amount of convincing that he hadn’t felt pressured and he’d wanted to have sex moved him, and eventually John sat Sherlock down for a very well-researched and thorough discussion of consent, sex and chronic pain. They’d come up with a rating system for Sherlock’s enthusiasm:

1: Sherlock was definitely, 100% up for any and all activities they wanted to engage in  
2: Low impact activities limited to ‘foreplay’, such as blow jobs, were the way to go  
3: John could have an active role while Sherlock was passive, such as wanking while Sherlock watched  
4: No sex at all, if John was in the mood it’s the loo or the shower. 

It had worked well for them, they’d found that they could both get off from lazy dirty talk while Sherlock simply palmed himself or just enjoyed the pleasurable moment without reaching orgasm, introducing a new sexual element to the bedroom. The intense week of testing and new drugs in his system, however, had left him pretty unenthusiastic for anything, really.

It wasn’t clear what changed, but after an impromptu date night at Angelo’s to celebrate the end of the exhaustive diagnostic testing process (for the most part), they found themselves stumbling through the front door and falling straight onto the sofa. “Are you sure you’re up for everything?” John asks, voice breathy and low as he pulls away from Sherlock. His eyes fixate on Sherlock’s swollen lips as he combs his hands through his curls, tugging slightly as he presses closer.

Sherlock can barely put a sentence together so he’s not really sure why John’s pulled away to ask if he really wants to do this, but he supposes he did agree to this kind of scrutiny when they discussed it properly just over a week ago. “Yes, John,” he whispers into his ear, teeth nipping at his lobe as he feels John pressed up against himself. “Please.” His whisper sounds more like an embarrassing, desperate moan at this point, but he’s far too gone to care. Sex was never really a source of insecurity for him. He’d been a virgin the first time John had pressed his wrists into the mattress and made sweet, passionate love to him, but he’d never felt the shyness he’s heard others talk about in regards to another seeing him vulnerable. It was John who he stared up at, John who had never treated him like the others had, he’d been different from the very beginning. He’d never feared his judgement, and such sentiment hadn’t changed at all since that first day.

“Okay, baby,” John murmurs, pulling him in for another kiss. Sherlock immediately tried to speed it up, overcome with passion and excitement, exacerbated by the fact that it had been far too long since John’s cock had been inside him, but John slowed it right back down. “Sweetheart,” he says, pulling back from Sherlock’s oh-so-tempting lips, “we have all the time in the world. No rush. I want to do this right, okay?” He climbed slowly off the sofa, immediately missing the relieving pressure of Sherlock’s thigh as he pulled him off, too, and led them to their bedroom. “Lie down,” he ordered, gentle but firm.

“John,” Sherlock moans as his head hit the pillow. John’s authority had always been a weakness of his, since the day they met. He’s the only one who could get Sherlock to do something with a simple sentence, whether that’s a serious order at a crime scene or a charged moment in their flat. He listens to John, and the firmness of his voice combined with sweet and kind demeanour does something nasty to Sherlock. Fuck, he’s already feeling overwhelmed.

As if he can sense it, John lays down next to Sherlock, hovering on one arm so his upper body is angled over Sherlock’s chest. “It’s okay. We’re going to take it slow. First, I’m going to undress you,” he teases, running his spare hand down Sherlock’s side and resting on his hip. He leans down so his lips tickle the shell of Sherlock’s ear (goosebumps may erupt over his body, but it’s definitely unrelated). “Then, you’re going to be a very good boy and suck me off, aren’t you?” Sherlock can’t help but whimper his affirmative response, bucking his hips into the air, chasing relief that wasn’t coming. “Then I’m going to finger you open, nice and slowly until you’re loose and ready for me, before I give you a nice hard fucking, just like you deserve, isn’t that right, baby?”

“Oh, fuck,” Sherlock cries out as John’s hand wanders sideways to brush Sherlock’s trapped cock. “Yes,” he pants.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good boy,” John says, smiling down at Sherlock. “Now do you want to get on your knees for me, or do you want to lie back on the bed?” Sherlock knows that John is fully trusting him to be his own advocate in this moment, to say if he doesn’t feel like giving a blow job or wants to stop completely - he’d stressed it relentlessly when they’d talked about it - but honestly, nothing sounds hotter than having the weight of John’s cock on his tongue. 

“Knees,” he says, voice still strangled by desperate desire. Ever since the first time they’d been intimate, there was nothing Sherlock loved more than being on his knees for John. It made him feel sexy and powerful, but safe and submissive at the same time, he loved how he could take John apart with his mouth, and still feel the sexiness of John’s authority. 

“Okay, baby,” John says evenly, but Sherlock can hear the drip of arousal in his voice, can see it in his eyes. Not that John is trying to hide it, of course. “Grab that pillow and slide it under your knees.”

As soon as he has John’s cock in his mouth, the rest of the world seems to zero in on that moment as everything else melts away, his world reduced to the feel of John on his tongue, his safe and familiar smell, his fingers carding through his hair. He takes his time at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feeling he’d missed so much as he bobs his head up and down, acknowledging the slight pressure of John’s hand but not always conforming to the pace he sets. Eventually, though, he craves more, and he looks up at John, giving him the signal to take control. Before he does, he pulls out and asks, “are you sure?” Sherlock just nods enthusiastically, breaking the string of saliva connecting his lips to the head of John’s cock and feeling it contract back to his chin, relishing in the dirtiness of it all. “You like that, don’t you, Sherlock?” he chuckles, pushing back in roughly, breaching his throat and feeling him gag around his cock. 

Sherlock moans loudly as John pulls back again, palming his dick with vigour and fidgeting about on his pillow, whining as John picks up the pace until he’s bucking into his mouth with an almost wild amount of passion while he murmurs to Sherlock, differing between dirty, foul-mouthed comments and sweet, John-like reassurances. All good things come to an end, though, and soon John is pulling out and manhandling Sherlock back onto the bed. 

“How do you want to lie, darling?” John asks gently, as if he hasn’t just wrecked Sherlock’s throat. “Front or back?”

“Back,” Sherlock whispers, voice sore and croaky. He can see how much it turns John on to see the effect he has on Sherlock - he’s always liked leaving his mark during sex. “Want to see you.” And just like that, the harsh arousal lighting up John’s eyes melts away at the edges to make room for the fondness that so often occupies his looks at Sherlock. 

“Precious boy,” John smiles, kissing him tenderly on his spit-soaked, swollen lips for just a second before he’s spreading Sherlock’s legs and reaching for the lube in their bedside drawer. He fingers him almost painfully slowly, reminding Sherlock that they have all the time in the world as he gently works him open one finger at a time while he whines and writhes beneath him. He waits until he’s got four fingers deep inside him before he even considers lubing himself up. Their erections have both flagged a little under the more banal element of sex, but John’s efforts at whispering complete and utter filth have them both fully still in the mood. “Ready, baby? Ready to get fucked nice and open, just like you deserve?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whimpers, voice high and wrecked still. “Please, I’m ready.” His eyes are wet and glassy, he’s practically begging for it at this point, not that he’d ever admit to such a thing. 

John slides in slowly at first, but he wastes no time once Sherlock nods that he’s adjusted before hammering back in, hard and deep. “Good, boy,” John says into Sherlock’s ear as he builds up to a comfortable pace for the two of them, brushing Sherlock’s prostate almost immediately, virtually an expert at finding it now. “You take it so well for me, don’t you? Almost like you were built custom made, just to take my cock.”

Tears spill from Sherlock’s eyes as he scrunches them in overwhelming pleasure. It feels as though every single nerve in his body is alive and fired up, ready to feel absolutely everything John is about to give him. He orgasms first, as John palms his cock for him with one hand while using the other to press Sherlock’s wrists into the mattress. He tells Sherlock just how much he loves him, hot and close in his ear, as he holds him down, the perfect storm to push him over the edge. John follows not a minute later as he watches Sherlock in the throes and aftershocks of such an intense orgasm, resting his full weight on Sherlock’s body as he cums deep inside him. 

It takes him a moment before he has the capacity to roll off him, but as soon as he does he doesn’t waste any time in carefully cleaning them up with the well-placed towel in the drawer. Sherlock curls into John’s body, pushing his face into John’s bare chest as he always does after sex, the need to just be close overcoming him as he feels safe and satisfied. “Good boy,” he whispers into his hair as he pulls him closer into his arms. “You did so well. Sleep now.” 

John’s fairly sure Sherlock didn’t stay awake long enough to hear him. 

★

It all kicks off in a virtually abandoned car park in Ealing a mere few days later. The joints in Sherlock’s lower body had violently protested their virulent evening activities the following day, and the stiff, sharp pain still lingers in his right leg, from his hip to the joints in his toes. (The evidence, so it seems to Sherlock, thus points his conclusion towards psychosomatic pain. He’d had his suspicions of course, but the fact that he is in pain after sex but that pain is in places that couldn’t possibly be logically affected is fairly conclusive evidence for him.) He arrives at the car park, therefore, with a barely detectable limp. He’d hesitated upon receiving the call from Lestrade, but over the past few months he’d become excellent at concealing pain, and the half-witted idiots were hardly likely to notice, he’d reasoned with himself. 

So he and John had hailed a taxi to a grizzly triple murder that Sherlock almost immediately realised was a familicide that was fairly likely to ultimately lead to a murder-suicide, whether or not it had already happened or was simply imminent was a matter later to be determined. At first, he’d managed to reach the first body with barely more than a cursory or irritated glance thrown away, left to examine the corpse in relative peace while John ambled off to find Lestrade, no doubt to engage in some pedestrian subject such as… beer, or… rugby. 

It starts when his ankle cramps, completely immovable. He’s crouched down, hunched over as he examines the blood spatter on the asphalt next to a shoulder wound when the sharp pain he’s felt consistently for the last three days explodes into blinding agony for a moment before receding enough that he realises what’s happened. He’s immediately flushed hot, nausea rushing through him as he tries to gain enough composure to figure out a way out of this mess. Thankfully, everyone else seems engaged in other business for the time being, and while he’s glad he doesn’t have to add humiliation to his list of problems at the moment, he also wishes John was here and he could tell him what to do. 

He’s just decided that trying to stand up and limp away to a bench to try and work his ankle back into motion is the best course of action when the dull protest in his hip of his current position that he’d been able to ignore for the past minute escalates into a similar blinding pain and a shout escapes his lips before he can stop it as he falls backwards and breathes heavily, eyes squeezed shut as he waits for the pain to subside. 

John’s by his side in a split second, abandoning Lestrade in favour of kneeling beside his partner. “Sherlock?” he murmurs quietly, no doubt trying to maintain some privacy from the crowd gathering around him, marvelling at the sight of Sherlock out of action. “Can you hear me?” He realises that his eyes are still scrunched shut and he hasn’t moved voluntarily since the pain started, too scared to trigger anything worse.

“Yes,” he grunts, teeth clenched together as he tries to breathe through the pain. “Hip and ankle.” They’d got in a routine of Sherlock announcing the body parts that were affected the worst at any one time, so John could help him in a more serious situation like this without him having to explain too much, or simply avoid touching those areas if they were at home. They sometimes laughed when Sherlock would randomly just call out ‘collar bone’ while they were sitting quietly in their chairs or falling asleep at night, indicating that a new pain had started or it had moved. It didn’t really feel like a laughing moment now. 

“Okay,” John soothes, voice still quiet. “Are they stiff, locked, sore? Can you move?” They can both hear Lestrade trying to call the ogling officers away into the lobby of the nearby office park they’re using as a base to give them some privacy, but he’s apparently not given Phillip fucking Anderson a gag yet. 

“What’s up freak?” he leers. “Your machine broken down? Out of order now are we?” 

It shouldn’t -- God, it absolutely shouldn’t -- be enough to spill the tears gathering behind his eyelids onto his cheeks, but apparently it’s the last straw. He’s in so much fucking pain, and he still doesn’t know why, and now he’s been humiliated in front of his colleagues; he’s just so agonisingly frustrated. He hears Lestrade’s sharp barks and a significant portion of the uniforms suggesting that maybe that was a bit too far, but he doesn’t care, he just wants to go home. God, he can’t even finish the fucking job. 

“Right,” John says firmly. “I’m going to get Lestrade to put all the evidence and photos gathered today in a case file and drop it round later, okay? We’re going to try and get your ankle moving and your hip pain bearable enough to get you to a taxi, and if we can’t it’s going to be an ambulance. So let’s have a look at your ankle.” 

Sherlock, thankful John’s taken charge and he doesn’t have to think his way out of the situation anymore, feels a few more tears slip out in gratitude. He sighs and wishes he could find a way to tell John how thankful he is as his ankle is gently massaged and eased from its stiff position, but he just can’t.

John seems to understand anyway, eyes soft with empathy and affection. He leans over to kiss him softly on the lips, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb before pulling away slightly. “Now, the hip pain. I want you to elongate your leg for me, nice and slow, that’s it.” John moves up his body slightly so their hips are parallel and he wraps an arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Now we’re going to lean you back so you’re horizontal which will give you a nice stretch in your hip muscles and ease the pain if it’s frustrated at your position, yeah? That’s it. Well done. Does that feel better?”

Sherlock nods, relief flooding his body, accompanied by a weighty tiredness.

“Come on,” John says. “Let’s get you home.”

They manage to get home okay in the taxi, but Sherlock keeps his face buried in John’s shoulder, not moving the entire journey back to Baker Street. He’s fairly sure that the driver is probably shooting them weird looks in the rear-view mirror, but he’s also fairly sure that John will be shooting back withering glares that Sherlock would be proud of in any other situation. 

“Where do you want to go, sweetheart?” John asks as they make their way slowly up the stairs to their flat. “Sofa or bed?”

It takes Sherlock another few steps to respond. “Sofa,” he decides eventually. “But can you get the duvet?”

John smiles at that, face so soft and fond in that way that makes Sherlock’s breath catch in his chest. He wishes he could tell 18-year-old Sherlock that one day someone comes along who makes him feel special, who looks after him. He’s not sure he’d believe himself. “Of course, love.” John takes his jacket off and eases him out of his trousers and shoes, making sure he’s comfortable on the sofa before dashing to the bedroom to grab the duvet to tuck him in. He then switches on the heated blanket and makes sure it’s arranged nicely around his right leg and hip before heading to the kitchen to switch on the kettle. Sherlock’s asleep before he hears the kettle finish boiling. 

When he wakes up some time later, he cracks an eye open to see Lestrade sitting in his chair with John opposite, engaged in some low-level conversation. John spots him immediately and walks over, crouching down in front of him. “Hi, darling,” he says quietly, a small smile on his face. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock makes a little noise. “Like I just woke up,” he whispers, scrunching his nose, though he can’t help but match John’s smile. “What did you tell him?” he asks, suddenly concerned that the cat’s out the bag and he had no say in it.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” John assures him quickly. “I didn’t tell him anything, not with you asleep and unable to engage in the conversation. We chatted for a bit about Anderson before moving on to some less serious subjects that you’d find utterly boring.” He grins down at Sherlock before kissing his hair gently. 

“Okay,” Sherlock sighs, although it comes out a little like a huff. “I guess we probably should tell him.” He really, really doesn’t want to expose himself to Lestrade, but honestly it’s sort of inevitable at this point. He’s had to leave a crime scene because of this twice now. John helps him sit up, although he just buries further under the duvet, wrapping it around his shoulders and leaning back against the wall. John slides a cushion behind his neck and head and he nods that he’s comfortable enough to have the much-needed conversation. 

John joins Sherlock on the sofa, and Sherlock immediately shifts closer, leaning into him until he’s practically on his lap, and tells Lestrade who, up until this point, has been very politely Not Listening to sit in the chair usually reserved for John when Sherlock’s sprawled across the sofa. “How are you feeling, mate?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock has to give him kudos for how normal he manages to sound. There’s no poorly disguised sympathy or irritation in his tone, just genuine curiosity and friendly, tightly managed concern. 

Sherlock nods and just looks at John, giving him the cue that he doesn’t feel like talking. “Feeling better now, yeah?” John says, looking back at Sherlock, reaching under the duvet to hold his clammy hand. Lestrade looks a little puzzled; Sherlock not wanting to say anything and not having a million and one opinions to offer is not all that usual, certainly not when he’s clearly lucid, sober and not in an all-consuming dark mood. “So, to sum it up, I suppose,” John begins. “Sherlock’s been having some health issues that we’re currently in the process of getting diagnosed, treated, managed, etcetera. That’s why the last two crime scenes have been a little difficult, and also why he’s turned you down a few times, too. We’ve been spending a lot of time in the outpatient department.”

John pauses while Lestrade takes it in. He’s seen Sherlock at his absolute worst, of course, when he’s been sick and barely conscious as cocaine ate him up from the inside out, or in withdrawal so intense and painful he genuinely thought he was going to die. This, though, is completely different. This has nothing to do with actions or behaviours the people in his life expect him to easily control, no matter how misguided such an opinion is. Sherlock’s won a cruel and destructive lottery he hadn't realised he’d entered. 

“What kind of - if you don’t mind me asking, that is,” Lestrade stumbles, clearly out of his depth. “What kind of… health issues are we talking?” 

“Well we’ve ruled out the most dangerous possibilities; we know it’s not cancer or MS or anything progressive, it’s looking like something chronic. We all have our hunches, but we’re waiting for a formal diagnosis in the next few weeks,” John says, gently brushing Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. He looks over to Sherlock. “Do you want to talk about some of the basic symptoms?” Sherlock nods, head against John’s shoulder as he feels the safety and warmth of being so close to him. 

“You don’t have to,” Lestrade says. “I mean obviously if you want to and think it will be helpful, I’d love to know, but don’t feel obligated.” His cheeks are slightly red and he’s fidgeting a little in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with all this discussion of feelings and weakness. Sherlock mentally rolls his eyes at the fragile masculinity that radiates from the people around him sometimes. It reminds him of when he first met John. 

“It’s okay. Sherlock wouldn’t say yes if he wasn’t absolutely sure,” John chuckles, and Lestrade smiles, too. “The primary symptom is widespread pain in different forms, but it’s accompanied by fatigue, dizziness, nausea, difficulty concentrating - although thank goodness that one hasn’t been all that prominent - poor sleep, headaches, allodynia - which is extreme sensitivity to things that shouldn’t cause pain, like a brush of clothing - and hyperalgesia - which is extreme sensitivity to something that usually causes mild pain, like a stubbed toe hurting for days or weeks. Some are so obscure Sherlock doesn’t even realise they’re symptoms, which suggests this has been a long time coming. We’re still figuring it all out. Did I leave any out that you want to mention?” Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Good Lord,” Lestrade says, leaning back in his chair and running his hand over his face. It takes a few seconds for him to gather himself enough to respond. “I’m sorry, mate, that’s just awful. I had no idea.” Another short pause. “So earlier…”

“Earlier Sherlock was facing some joint pain and cramping in his ankle, and then his hip didn’t seem to like the position he was in, so the muscles there were rather vocal in their protest. He’s got very good at hiding how much pain he’s in, but sometimes it’s so overwhelming it shows through, isn’t that right, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock lifts his head from John’s shoulder, but he’s too tired and feels too defeated to put on a haughty mask of snobby indifference, so he just looks over to Lestrade, unguarded and open - probably for the first time in their years-long relationship - and nods. “Yes, that’s the gist of it,” he sighs. “I’m afraid I may not be the most effective person to fulfil the duties I have undertaken in the last few years.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lestrade says, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve bought the folder with the evidence and you’ll have it either solved or with a new lead for us to follow up on in no time. If you’re not up to coming to a crime scene, just let me know and I’ll deliver the file. It’s not a problem, Sherlock, I’d much rather you’re working safely and comfortably at home than pushing through the agony in a bloody abandoned car park in Ealing of all places.” Sherlock nods once, trying to convey carefully restrained gratitude, before leaning his head back on John’s shoulder. “Look, I can’t exactly sack Anderson for his comment earlier, but I am pretty bloody fed up with him, and the last thing you need right now is his dim-witted, idiotic presence. So I’ve given him a written warning for unprofessional and inappropriate behaviour, and I’m also going to ‘bench’ him as it were. For the next few crime scenes I’ll use a different forensic officer. I’m sorry he was such a grade A twat, Sherlock.” That earns him a snort from both the men on the sofa. 

“You can say that again,” John laughs. 

“Right,” Lestrade says, standing up from his chair. “I’d better get going and leave you both in peace. Sherlock, I’ve left the file with the evidence from this morning’s crime scene with John, so have a look at it when you feel up to it and text me everything you find out, okay? And feel better soon, lad.” He gives them both a nod and smile before collecting his coat and exiting the flat. 

As soon as Lestrade’s footsteps have receded down the stairs, Sherlock wiggles himself down the sofa until his head is in John’s lap. He pulls the duvet and heated blanket around himself tighter until he’s warm and comfortable again while John sits back and lets him get settled. “Go back to sleep, love,” he says quietly. “I’ll be here.”

“Always,” Sherlock says, voice muffled by the wool of John’s jumper.

“Always,” John confirms, leaning down to place a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, before he picks up the book he’s placed on the side table next to the sofa specifically for these moments and settles in for an hour’s rest, peaceful in one another’s company. 

★

The following day is a quiet one. John doesn’t have to go into the surgery, they have no appointments for once, and the familicide case file is sitting untouched on the desk since Sherlock doesn’t really feel up to tackling it just yet. They spend the morning drinking tea while John trawls through the Sunday newspaper and Sherlock picks through a 2013 edition of an Australian encyclopedia, editing bits that are wrong or incomplete and updating various sections with new discoveries and advancements in both technology and knowledge. It feels a little out of the blue when John suddenly clears his throat and puts down his newspaper. It’s especially odd that he chooses that moment to do so, since he’s just reached the sports section, and he’s been chatting Sherlock’s ear off for the past few days about an incident during an NBA match, and Sherlock knows how much John loves reading the analysis in the Times on Sunday. 

“Sherlock,” John starts in that tone, and immediately Sherlock groans. 

“I already know I’m not going to like what you have to say or agree with you, so go back to reading your sports section and I’ll continue editing this page on the anatomy of the eye and we’ll pretend this never happened, okay?” Sherlock says petulantly, picking his pen back up. 

“No, Sherlock,” John says firmly, and for some godforsaken reason Sherlock actually puts the pen back down. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Ugh,” Sherlock sighs, but he’ll listen because he does happen to like John quite a bit, and listening is apparently what partners do, or so he’d learned at the beginning of their relationship. “Fine.”

“My back hurts,” John says, matter-of-factly. 

Sherlock sits up straight, paying attention properly now. When it comes to John and his safety, he’ll do absolutely anything. Even jumping off a roof and faking his death for two years before returning to an angry yet relief-ridden man, whom he’d realised just how much he loved in his time away. “What’s going on?” he asks, concerned. 

“I think that--” John starts, before sighing and cutting himself off, taking a moment to find the right words. “I think we need to find some mobility aids.”

“You’re in that much pain, John?” Sherlock says, feeling suddenly rather distraught. “Why on earth didn’t you say something sooner?”

“No, no, Sherlock,” John says quickly, reassuring him immediately. “No, Sherlock, I think we need to get them for you.”

That stops Sherlock’s mind in its tracks. He’d never really thought about mobility aids before, not beyond what you see in everyday life: the elderly using walking sticks or canes, a sick person being pushed around in a wheelchair, the odd mobility scooter, a disabled person using an electric wheelchair. He’d never really translated it into his own personal life or thought about it beyond its place in his casual observances of his surroundings. Yet, here he is. 

“My back is sore, because I have to help you move around so much, Sherlock,” he says gently. 

This, of course, immediately sends Sherlock into even more of a spiral, feeling devastated at the prospect of having hurt John. He feels selfish and cruel, bringing back memories of their darker, less communicative times when they’d been in a cycle of destruction, hurting one another back and forth, trading perpetrator for victim on a seemingly regular basis. “Oh, John,” he says, choked up with emotion as his belly twists upside down. He’s not really sure why this feels so intense. “I’m so sorry. I should have noticed… I just- I didn’t realise.” He puts his head in his hands and tries to process everything that’s happening. 

“Sherlock, please,” John says, getting out of his chair and moving to crouch next to Sherlock. “Don’t be silly. I don’t mind helping you, in fact, I’ll always help you when you need it. You didn’t realise because you’re not the only one good at disguising pain, and you’re also rather distracted in those moments, aren’t you, sweetheart? I’m just saying that I think if we got some crutches for you to use around the house if you need to - or even outside if you want that - and then a foldable walking stick that we could take out with us hidden in a bag, so you can use it to take some of the strain off of me if we need to use it. I just think that would have been really helpful to have in a situation like yesterday, yeah?”

Sherlock just nods into his hands, still feeling sick at the whole prospect of the conversation. 

“Look,” John says. “You don’t have to decide now, okay? It’s just something to consider. It might be wise to put together a little bag we can take with us that has some of the things we need if you do have a ‘painsplosion’ out and about, yeah?” He chuckles a little at their funny little word for the kind of pain he’d experienced the day before. “It’s okay if this all feels a little much, that’s quite normal for someone experiencing so many new things at once. We’ll just take this a moment at a time. Now, though, we’re going to go and lie in bed for a little while, because you look like you could use a rest and I just want to spend some time being close to my favourite person and maybe listen to a podcast while you nap. Does that sound okay?”

Sherlock just nods and lets himself be led towards the bedroom, his mind still swirling around in a million different directions. He decides that maybe John’s hit the nail on the head and a little nap will help him process things. Maybe he’ll wake up with just an iota more clarity than he has at the moment. 

(Over breakfast the next day, Sherlock asks John to order the mobility aids he’d mentioned the day before. John gives him a quick kiss and nods before asking him if he wants another cup of tea. Sherlock’s stomach unknots itself and his brain calms down a bit, and everything feels good again. He’s not sure he’s ever been so relieved.)

★

Dr Sosa’s office is warm and inviting, a far cry from the types of offices John’s had at various NHS surgeries in inner city London. The April sun outside filters in through the window, brightening the room and warming their bodies tempered by the cool breeze, the whispers of winter not yet gone. The results of all of the diagnostic tests they’d endured together over the past few weeks are compiled into an orderly case file with Sherlock’s name and patient number printed neatly onto a white label in the corner. John’s hand is wrapped gently around Sherlock’s as they wait impatiently for Dr Sosa to finish loading up the computer system and fussing around with his patient record. Finally, he turns the monitor so that Sherlock and John can see the screen and picks up the file. 

“Okay,” he starts jovially. “So well done for getting through all of those horrible tests I’ve cruelly put you through over the past few weeks. Now, John, as a doctor yourself I’m sure you’ve been mulling over the possibilities for diagnosis rigorously throughout this process, and as I go through the results, feel free to chip in with any opinions or questions. That goes for you, too, Sherlock, of course.”

“That’s great, thank you,” John says, squeezing Sherlock’s hand gently as he looks over to him. Sherlock feels nervous and pensive, and as much as he’s trying to hide it, he’s fairly sure that John will read between the lines and notice exactly how he’s feeling. Not that he minds, of course. He never really minds anything John does. 

“Right, let’s start with the bloods and urinalysis. One of the possibilities was lupus, but your complete blood count was normal, as was your erythrocyte sedimentation rate, and your antinuclear antibody - or ANA - test came back negative which rules that out fairly confidently. Your urinalysis also indicated that lupus was unlikely. Your enzyme-linked immunosorbent assay test came back negative, so it’s unlikely to be Lyme disease either. Now, your CRP was elevated, indicating that there is some inflammation in your body, which can sometimes point to rheumatoid arthritis. On balance, however, I’m not convinced that your symptoms align enough to warrant a diagnosis of that, so we’ll discuss that a little more later. We’ve also monitored your TSH and thyroid antibodies, which also looked normal. You don’t have type 2 diabetes, either,” Dr Sosa concludes, pausing a moment. 

“Elevated CRP could indicate a range of illnesses, though, couldn’t it?” John says. “Inflammation is associated with a lot of rheumatoid conditions.”

“Exactly,” Dr Sosa confirms. “We’ll talk a little more about that in a moment. Let’s examine your MRI now.” He pulls it up on the computer screen so they can both see what he’s talking about. John leans in close but Sherlock remains where he is, confident in John to notice anything amiss and bring it up. “There are no serious indicators on any of your MRIs - or on your x-rays for that matter - that would suggest the reason for all these symptoms you’re experiencing. Seemingly unrelated, there is a stress fracture in one of your lower vertebrae that one of my colleagues has diagnosed as spondylosis - a very common condition in active people which will heal on its own. While this might have caused you some lower back pain, it’s definitely not related to your wider condition. Aside from that, there’s nothing in your spine or spinal cord that we can see that would be causing you so much pain. There’s no suggestion of ankylosing spondylitis or anything of the sort. The MRIs of your legs and brain are also unhelpful. You’re looking very healthy on the inside, Mr Holmes.”

“Right,” John says, voice flat and disappointed. “Where do we go from here?” 

“My hunch,” Dr Sosa says, “is that it’s a rheumatoid condition, as you suggested earlier, Dr Watson. Instinctively I want to say fibromyalgia. Your symptoms are a perfect match and you reach the diagnostic criteria. However, I am obviously not a rheumatologist, so what I’m going to do is give you a preliminary diagnosis of fibromyalgia and then refer you to my colleague, Dr Mandell, in rheum and she should be able to give you a definitive answer, which then makes the diagnosis official. How do we feel about that?”

“It’s what I’d suspected for a little while,” admits John, looking over to Sherlock, reaching up to touch Sherlock’s arm briefly before returning back to hold his hand. “I’ve seen a few cases of fibromyalgia in my career as a GP, and Sherlock does present a fairly typical case, but I’m also not a rheumatologist and all of the patients I’ve seen have presented differently each time, and were also all women.”

“Yes,” Dr Sosa muses. “Fibromyalgia is much rarer in men, it only affects men in around 10% of cases, but it’s still perfectly legitimate. The data is also likely to be skewed as women are much more forthcoming with pain and illness, so are more likely to seek help and thus receive a diagnosis than men. Implicit biases, however, do mean that men tend to be diagnosed quicker and are taken more seriously, unfortunately.” 

John hums, seeming to ponder over something for a moment. “What tends to cause it?”

“Well, there are a range of theories,” Dr Sosa says slowly. “It’s often triggered by a serious or stressful event in one’s life, but sometimes it just appears out of nowhere. In terms of its actual physiology, the leading theory is that the central nervous system has developed changes in the way it processes pain signals. Chemical imbalances are also to blame as patients usually have lower levels of serotonin, dopamine and noradrenaline meaning you find it harder to process mood, hunger, your response to stressful situations, the list goes on.” 

John and Sherlock both turn to look at each other at that. Everything seems to make a lot more sense now. “I think that adds up quite a lot,” John says, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. He’s been fairly quiet during the appointment, but he’s just thankful John isn’t pushing him to say anything, that he trusts him to speak up when he wants to. 

“Speaking of which,” Dr Sosa says, sitting back in his chair, “let’s discuss management for a moment. You’ve said that the gabapentin has been working well, but I’d like to introduce amitriptyline as well. It’s an antidepressant, but at lower dosages it’s used to treat neuralgic pain and I think that combined with the gabapentin it could be really effective for you. Using them together sometimes increases some of the side effects like drowsiness and dizziness so take the amitriptyline at night to minimise those symptoms. Furthermore, I want to give you some prescription codeine. I think that with the seriousness of some of your incidents, Sherlock, having something that you can take when the pain is really severe should lower the risk of a dangerous event in public and also prevent hospitalisation, which John’s told me has come pretty close at times. I’m sure that John and your brother will help monitor the use of opiates, but the benefits seem to outweigh the cons, in my opinion. I’m also going to prescribe an antiemetic for your nausea and propose you get your hands on some over-the-counter nytol to use when the insomnia plays up, okay?”

John looks to Sherlock who’s nodding, looking relieved. “That sounds great, Dr Sosa, thank you so much,” John says gratefully, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers again. 

Dr Sosa prints the prescriptions quickly after turning his monitor back to face his side of the desk, and then shows them out of his office. “I’ll have the referral letter to Dr Mandell by the day after tomorrow, and these prescriptions will be ready immediately in the pharmacy just down the corridor, okay? I wish you the best of luck, Sherlock.” He shakes both of their hands before disappearing back into his office.

John turns immediately to Sherlock, leaning up to kiss him firmly on the lips. “We did it, sweetheart,” he says, sounding a little emotional. “How do you feel?”

“Relieved,” is all Sherlock can say, before kissing John again and melting into the feeling of acceptance and validation, both from the man standing in front of him and the man sitting behind a solid oak door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Richard Sikken's poem, [Saying Your Names](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/saying-your-names-crush-by-richard-siken-2004-winner/)
> 
> [Rebloggable Tumblr Post](https://effortlesslie.tumblr.com/post/626538088501477376/what-spring-does-with-cherry-trees)


	2. Speaking of Marvels, I am Alive Together With you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock adapt to the new diagnosis, and shit goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Close to you - Rihanna  
> I’m yours - The Script  
> Heartbreak weather - Niall Horan  
> Macaroni song - Corey Kilgannon  
> God took a bow - Jacob Whitesides  
> Always you - Cody Simpsons

I don’t know any other way to love,  
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,   
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,   
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

XVII; Pablo Neruda

By the end of the following week, they’ve had the diagnosis confirmed by the rheumatologist, a grey-haired, kindly woman who John and Sherlock both later agree reminded them strongly of Mrs Hudson, and it feels like a weight off their chests. The medication Dr Sosa had prescribed was - thank God - working well and they’d been referred out of private care and back to John’s surgery under Dr Cheboi who would now manage all of Sherlock’s needs in General Practice. Really it just felt good to have an answer. Of course it didn’t change much about Sherlock’s everyday experience of the condition, but he hadn’t realised just how challenging he’d found not knowing why he was struggling so much until he didn’t have to wonder anymore. 

The day after their appointment with Dr Sosa, they’d both spent hours together sprawled across the living room reading journals and patient’s experiences, researching every nook and cranny of the internet for more information on what Sherlock was facing and how they could deal with it moving forward. Even John had barely acknowledged Mrs Hudson when she’d walked in with tea and a slice of rum cake -- who had made it and why were details they’d both ignored. She’d tittered about the mess they were making and had a very one sided conversation about the new chef at Speedy’s before she realised herself and left them to it. Their research had been cut a bit short when Sherlock was hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion and nausea at around 6pm, when John decided they’d stop for a light dinner and then watch some TV before bed. At the beginning of Sherlock’s experience of this illness, such an interruption would have frustrated him greatly, and John in turn, but months later it’s simply a part of life. 

John also talks with some of his colleagues who had specialised in or taken an interest in rheumatoid or chronic conditions, trying to gather as much information as possible. They briefly consider transferring Sherlock’s case to one of them, but they’ve both grown to like Dr Cheboi - which, for Sherlock, is nothing short of a miracle - and John trusts him the most of all his colleagues, so that settles the matter. He contacts a few support groups around London and gathers people’s first-hand experience with the condition, coping mechanisms and relationship advice, and resolves to get Sherlock to one at some point. (He rather thinks that that might do more harm than good, though. It may very well need to be a solo affair on his part.)

For all their research, though, they couldn’t cure Sherlock. It goes away after a few years for some people, others live with it their whole lives. Some people rely on wheelchairs and mobility aids, others don’t. Some people can work, others can’t. It’s a poorly misunderstood and under-researched condition with no cure, only management options available. The medication helps a little bit at managing his baseline pain levels, but they still occasionally explode to unmanageable levels when he’s writhing around in pain, wrapped in his heated blankets and dosed up on paracetamol and codeine, nothing for it but just waiting for it to pass. Some days he can’t get out of bed, feeling like his limbs have heavy weights attached to them. Other days he’s completely functional, his symptoms manageable and he can get on with his life. 

The first flare happens in early May. A lot of the research they’d conducted after the diagnosis had spoken of so-called ‘flare-ups’, but the pattern of Sherlock’s symptoms tended to fluctuate day to day, though he was able to be functional the majority of the time. It wasn’t until he woke up in the middle of a case -- he’d had to give up his habit of not eating or sleeping during cases now his body had very different demands of him -- and couldn’t get out of bed that that changed. They’d initially thought that it was just a bad day, a one-off in which the fatigue would take over and pain would march through his body while he laid still, afraid to move for the nausea. John had already left for his morning shift at the surgery before Sherlock woke up so he suffers cold and sore and alone until John returns just after lunchtime.

“Sherlock, sweetheart,” he says as he toes off his shoes and climbs under the duvet, huddling close to Sherlock but not touching him, unaware of where he’s hurting. “What’s wrong?”

“Tired,” he whispers, eyes opening to look over at John, immediately comforted by the sight of him close again. “Sore all over, especially my right collarbone and left leg.” He pauses a moment. “Missed you.” His eyes are watering a little and it’s mostly out of relief, but he can’t help but get frustrated at how little control he has over his emotions ever since these bloody symptoms set in. (He partially blames getting in a relationship with John in the first place for feeling things he never did before.)

“Oh, darling,” John sighs, leaning in to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s waist. He quickly accepts the invitation and rolls over a little to huddle into John’s warmth. 

“Was cold and felt sick,” he says quietly in a stilted way that gives away his fear of jostling any part of his body. “Couldn’t take medicine.”

“Okay, love,” John says. “Let’s sort that now, shall we? Sit up just a little bit, that’s it.” He leans over and grabs the lunchtime pills from the pillbox on the bedside table along with the glass of water sat there. He also pops out an antiemetic and asks Sherlock if he needs a codeine, before grabbing one of those as well. “Right, here we are, Sherlock. Can you take those for me?” He lays Sherlock back down gently before sitting up properly himself. “Now, I’m going to go and grab a slice of toast and a banana for when the antiemetic kicks in because you need to eat something, love. I’m also going to turn your heat pack back on and put it on your thigh and tuck you back in properly so you can have a nap, okay?”

Sherlock just nods silently, curling into himself a little at the loss of John’s warmth. They spend the rest of the day curled in bed, watching a few movies on John’s laptop that Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to comment on, napping and reading, until it’s the evening and John grabs some pasta while Sherlock turns his nose up at the offer of any food, appetite completely and utterly gone. 

The thing is, though, that it’s the same the next day. And the day after that. They eventually have to admit to themselves that Sherlock has finally hit one of the dreaded flares they’d read about so many times. “It’s alright, love,” John says, leaning against the headboard with Sherlock curled against his side. “We just have to be patient and wait for it to pass. Close your eyes and have a little rest.”

The problem is, that by the fifth day, Sherlock is hopelessly, painfully, mind numbingly bored. He still feels far too poorly to get up and start an experiment, holding a book to read is too painful on his wrists, and although he’d found some energy to look at one of Lestrade’s case files that morning, it had exhausted him to an almost laughable extent and he’d had to stop after 20 minutes and sleep for a very disproportionate 2 hours. John, rudely, still had shifts at the surgery most days, although he found that it was much easier to wake up alone and later have John come home to him than spend the morning in his arms only to have him snatched away at lunchtime to return late in the evening. John had introduced him to audiobooks and podcasts which help pass the time a little quicker. He makes it his mission to find the most obscure, niche shows in order to learn something: even if the information is largely unuseful and will later be deleted, it’s better than just lazily revising. He still, however, wishes desperately that he could get back to normal life. 

Molly comes by in the afternoon of the fifth day while John is at work and brings him the report of an experiment she’d done on a cancerous pancreas to look through, which is honestly a godsend: finally something interesting to read that doesn’t have a direct vendetta against his wrists. “I also had a woman in the morgue this week who died after her bladder burst,” Molly says, sitting on the edge of his bed and picking at the crisps she’d bought with her. “She’d been holding it in habitually for the past week apparently, developed some irrational fear of going to the toilet and eventually it just gave in. I’ve never seen it before so it was quite the morning. I emailed you some pictures, it’s all quite fascinating.”

“I haven’t checked my phone,” Sherlock says, smiling weakly. “The bladder has always been a source of interest to me, though. A burst one is a rarity, you’re lucky that woman ended up on your table. I doubt you’ll ever see another case again.”

“I suppose so,” Molly muses, laughing quietly. She pauses for a moment. “How are you doing? I mean obviously not great right now, but like… in general? I was honestly quite surprised when I heard about your diagnosis. I guess I’d always naively, in some small way, bought into that ‘I’m a machine’ rhetoric you used to push all those years ago, even though I knew that logically it was complete bullshit.” 

If this had been just a few years ago, Sherlock would have been surprised at Molly’s profanity, but around the same time that he and John had finally worked through their drama and got together, he’d found himself getting closer with Molly, too. He’d quickly learned that the real Molly was a whole lot more dynamic and brave than how she came across when he’d kept her at a safe distance. 

He ponders her question for a moment. “This flare-up has been pretty rough,” he admits, picking at the bedsheets in his left hand. “But John’s been good, and I’ve just been trying to entertain myself. The worst part is that now I have a bit more energy, I'm not sleeping all day so I have more time to be bored.”

“Well maybe reading about cancerous pancreases and looking through pictures of burst bladders will help with that a bit,” Molly laughs. “I’m sorry it’s rough, Sherlock. But you’re coping well, by the looks of things!”

Sherlock’s not really sure he agrees. Sometimes he feels like he’s a completely different person. Compared to a few years ago, that’s absolutely true, but he made a conscious choice to be a better person when he committed to John. This was not a choice. He feels as though his old personality, the things that used to define him are slipping away just a little bit, as though his stupid fucking illness is chipping away at him just a little more each day, as though eventually he’ll be standing in his kitchen one morning with only his skeleton left. He really, really doesn’t know what to do about that. 

All bad things come to an end though, and by the next week he’s mostly back to normal. John forces him to ease back slowly into his normal activity levels, acutely aware that he’d be spending another week in bed if he overdid it too quickly. Soon though, the only sign that the flare-up had ever overtaken Sherlock’s body was some lingering pain in his wrists and hands. They celebrate his recovery on John’s next day off by spending a good two hours in the lab at Bart’s while John occupies himself on his laptop (and also by admiring Sherlock’s gorgeous side profile) before heading for a dinner together at Angelo’s. 

“You still feeling okay?” John asks as they sit in the cab on the way to the restaurant. Sherlock had said that he was fine to walk, but John insisted that he needed to preserve energy and he was now sitting moodily across from him in the car. (Secretly, though, he knew John was right - his hips feel a little like they’re grinding together and he was nowhere near as moody as his deliberately schooled face indicated. How could he be when John was looking at him like he’s his favourite thing in the world?)

“Yes, John,” he says, deciding to drop the moody act. John could probably see right through it anyway. A fond smile that he couldn’t fight even if he wanted to crept across his face as he imagined the night in front of him: the way the low lighting in the restaurant highlighted John’s features so beautifully, how he always brought his chair out from under the table for Sherlock before he sat down, how he’d order for him since he never really felt in the mood for any one particular thing and John knew him better than he knew himself sometimes. How Angelo seemed to know what they were destined for long before they did, and gave them the best experience he could every time they visited. How date nights never failed to melt his insides into a puddle of gooey romance. How he never thought anyone would ever love him enough to buy him dinner, let alone look at him from across the table as if he holds the world in his hands, as if he has anything at all to offer. 

John helps him out of the cab when they arrive at the restaurant since Sherlock’s hips were not a fan of the manoeuvre and takes his hand as soon as his feet are planted firmly on the pavement. There’s something that feels safe about his hand being firmly nestled in John’s - it’s a grounding point that helps him feel tethered to the world. John had picked up on it early in their relationship, when Sherlock had been overwhelmed by all the sensory input at a shopping centre they’d visited to pick out a present for Lestrade’s birthday, but as soon as he’d wrapped Sherlock’s hand in his, he’d calmed down. He no longer felt like he was drowning in a sea of information that needed to be taken in, but as though he was firmly anchored in reality and was simply observing the rest of the world. 

Angelo is, of course, delighted when they walk in, John making sure Sherlock’s okay getting over the small step and isn’t showing any signs of pain or discomfort. “Ah, my favourite couple,” he beams, leading them over to their usual table. “I’ll fetch a candle. More romantic.” He hands them their menu and bustles off to the kitchen. John predictably pulls Sherlock’s chair out for him and lets him sit down first, placing a fleeting kiss to his lips before rounding the table to his own seat and opening the menu. 

“Okay, love?” John asks, looking over the menu at Sherlock who is already looking at him. He knows his eyes will be stupidly, embarrassingly soft as he takes in John’s profile, but he can’t help it. They’re long past pretending they’re not absolutely gone for one another. 

“Couldn’t be better,” Sherlock smiles. “I’m happy; I got to examine some lung cells that had been poisoned by carbon monoxide and see Molly, I’ve finally got out of the house and now I’m at my favourite restaurant with my favourite person in the whole world.” 

John beams, face looking just as wonderful in the low lighting as Sherlock knew it would. “I’m glad, sweetheart,” he says. “You deserve to catch a break for once.” He looks back down at the menu as Sherlock glows at John’s words, feeling warm inside. “Now, I’m thinking of the pan-fried chicken breast in almond pesto with vegetables ratatouille for myself… and I think you’ll enjoy the spaghetti alla puttanesca; lots of olives and veg to fill you up after a long day. I reckon you’ll like the flavours. Does that sound good?” 

“Perfect,” Sherlock says, mouth already watering after the appetite he’d worked up that day. “Did I tell you that I’m fairly certain Mycroft is seeing someone?” He says suddenly, realising that so many things had got in the way he hadn’t told John this incredible piece of information. 

“What?” John says incredulously. “Mycroft? Are you sure?” Sherlock levels him with a look. “Right, right, okay. Fair play. How do you know? When did you find out?”

“I had an inkling a few weeks ago and it was gradually confirmed but we’ve been a little distracted, of course. The biggest indication was that I called his office the other day and his secretary told me that he had a personal engagement, which has previously only ever involved his business with me. Although he’s not trying to hide it or he would’ve told her to tell me he was busy specifically with work. There have been other signs, too, such as when he visited the other day and there was a hair not belonging to him on his collar. He’d likely missed it in the mirror as it was tucked in rather deep, and I only noticed it because it caught the light, but it was definitely there.”

“Wow,” John says, clearly not knowing what to say. He doesn’t comment on the fact that Sherlock is voluntarily calling Mycroft and let him visit when he was poorly. Sherlock had given up pretending that he didn’t love his brother deeply, and they’d grown closer over the last few years as he gradually dismantled the guarded walls he’d erected to try and protect himself from his childhood. That doesn’t mean that John sees him in quite such a positive light though; he is still firmly of the belief he’s an arrogant tosser, not quite over their first meeting even after all these years. John resorts to just giggling and they tuck into their meals.

John swings their hands together as they stroll out of Angelo’s, both feeling giddy and warm from the meal and company shared. 

“That was a good choice, John,” Sherlock says as he hails a taxi and they climb in. “The spaghetti was delicious.” He quickly tells the driver to take them to Baker Street before turning to John and leaning into his body.

“I’m glad, love,” John beams. “I reckon you’d be hard pressed to eat at Angelo’s, order anything and not enjoy your meal, though. That man is a walking Italian miracle, I swear.”

Sherlock hums in vague agreement. “I think you’re a walking English miracle,” he winks, fluttering his eyelashes.

John’s loud bark of a laugh could be blamed on the wine, but Sherlock would definitely like to think that he just finds him funny. He’d never found being funny a very promising character trait until John had giggled at one of his remarks. It had suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important to make John laugh at every available opportunity. “Oh how I love it when you flirt with me,” he laughs, waggling his eyebrows and kissing him squarely before pulling away and wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s waist. It makes Sherlock think of the times they used to sit with the middle seat between them at opposite ends of the cab, and how now they sit pathetically close. 

“Good,” Sherlock replies, voice low, “because I don’t intend on stopping.” He looks up at John through his eyelashes and smiles suggestively. 

“God, keep it in your pants, you perv,” John grins. “At least wait until we’re actually home so we don’t scar the poor driver’s eyeballs.”

“I rather think we’d be blessing them,” Sherlock sniffs haughtily. 

“I’m not sure he’d agree,” John whispers, giggling against the shell of his ear. 

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock giggles back, trying to keep his voice hushed but definitely not succeeding.

Sherlock’s tired from the day, so as much as he’s excited by John’s possessive lust, he decides that he just wants to watch John while he gets off. “That’s okay, sweetheart,” John says quietly as he pulls him softly to the bedroom. “You lie there nice and still and I’ll take care of the rest, okay? As long as you promise to tell me if something makes you feel uncomfortable or you get too tired or you just want to stop, everything’s all okay. Lie back for me, Sherlock.” 

Even just the slightest, gentlest order from John begins to turn Sherlock on. John taking charge of sex has always been a point of pressure for him; it made him feel protected and looked after, it made him feel as though he could relax and not have to worry whether he was doing things right, or if he was boring his lover. It was especially a point of insecurity when he first slept with John, losing his virginity to a man who seemed so much more experienced, as though he oozed sexuality, so as soon as he’d stepped up to the plate and told Sherlock exactly what to do, sex became genuinely enjoyable. 

“I’m going to look after you, okay?” John murmurs, laying Sherlock back on the bed and climbing on top of him, mindful of the spots that Sherlock had helpfully announced hurt in the taxi, keeping most of his weight up with one arm, using his other hand to gently stroke Sherlock’s face. Sherlock found that kind of strength extra attractive. John leans down to meet Sherlock’s lips in a steamy kiss, taking his breath away quite literally as they both get more and more worked up by the other. John eventually breaks away and sits up slightly, leaning away from Sherlock. “Can you take your shirt off for me, darling?”

Whimpering quietly, already overcome with need for John, Sherlock sits up just enough to unbutton and peel off his now rumpled white shirt, flinging it on the floor in a manner definitely not appropriate for such an expensive piece of clothing. He leans back on the bed, looking up at John who’s ripped off his jumper and t-shirt in much the same fashion, and marvels at the sexiness of the man above him. John’s muscles are pronounced in the current position as they work to hold himself up, and he looks so strong and solid, every bit the soldier he first met at Bart’s all those years ago. His hair is silver now and he styles it with product, no longer letting it lay flat across his head, and Sherlock loves how powerful and sexy it makes him look, though of course he fell in love with the man who still had rather flat, boring hair. 

The expression on John’s face is really what gets to Sherlock, though. He can read the lust in his eyes, he knows that he’s hopelessly turned on for him, but the softness around them lets the fondness shine through. It’s a comforting mix of John’s famous I’m about to make you cum so hard and I’m so in love with you even when you’re an idiot looks that it makes Sherlock’s heart hurt a little with how much love he feels for him. He can’t revel in it for too long, however, because soon John is delving right back in for another impassioned snog. 

“God, Sherlock,” he says as he pulls back, rolling off him. “You’re so fucking sexy I swear it’ll be the death of me.” He then rearranges them so Sherlock is comfortably resting on his side, parallel with John’s chest while John is propped up on the pillows, nearly sitting upright. He strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s hair for a moment, letting him catch his breath, catching his fingers on the odd entangled curl and pulling just enough to hear his breath hitch. 

“John,” Sherlock mumbles eventually. “Please.”

“Fuck,” John curses, biting his lip. “I’ll never get tired of hearing that voice beg for me. You’re so desperate for it, aren’t you, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock can only nod helplessly in response, looking up at John with big, desperate eyes. “Yes, John,” he replies eventually. “I’m such a slut for you.”

John damn near growls at that. “You are, aren’t you? Just a little slut for me to use, hm? Just for me to lay out and explore, make me cum. Isn’t that what you’re good for?”

“Yes, John,” he gasps, “fuck.” He bucks his hips so his cock comes in contact with John’s thigh, rutting desperately as his eyes glass over with desire.

John quickly catches his hip in a soft grip so as not to hurt him, but his eyes are blazing with a different kind of fire. “Uh, uh. Let’s not get carried away, hm? You’re going to be nice and patient for me.” There’s no question in his voice, no room for debate or discussion. (Although of course if Sherlock needed to debate or discuss, there wouldn’t be a moment of hesitance on John’s part.)

“Yes, John,” he apologises remorsefully. “I’m sorry.” 

“That’s alright, darling. I know it’s overwhelming, yeah?” Sherlock’s cock gets even wetter at that, and he moans quietly, though he forces his hips to stay still. “Now, suck.” He puts three fingers into Sherlock’s mouth and fucks them slowly in and out, not quite enough to choke him, but enough to give him the sensation of being filled, taking the edge off. There’s nothing Sherlock loves more in sex than something in his mouth, preferably John’s cock, so his fingers do nicely on nights when they need to tone it down a bit. “I want you to imagine it’s my cock you’re sucking, imagine it’s me pushing my way past those filthy lips, hm?”

Sherlock whimpers at that, obeying John. He loves the feeling of John forcing his lips open with the head of his cock, making him take as much as he can until he’s gagging on it, gagging for it. 

“God, you’re so filthy,” John sighs, reaching his own hand down his pants and pulling his cock out. “Look at my cock, look at me stroking it. You like that, don’t you?” He pulls his fingers out of Sherlock’s mouth for just a moment to use Sherlock’s saliva as lube to make his wank more pleasurable before plunging them back in. “Can you feel my fingers stretching your lips out? I always used to fantasise about those sinful lips.” John makes sure to maintain eye contact as he debauches Sherlock with his words. “I used to wank in the shower and picture you on your knees for me, sucking me off. You love it just as much as I do, don’t you?”

John can see Sherlock straining himself not to move his hips and takes mercy on him, pulling his fingers from his mouth for a moment.. “You can use my leg or your hands to get off, okay? Is your cock wet enough or do you need some lube?”

Sherlock takes a minute to pull down his trousers and pants to inspect the situation. “I’m okay,” he says, flushing. 

“Yeah?” John teases with a smile, pressing his fingers back in. “Your little cock wet enough without any help? It’s just that desperate, isn’t it? I love it when you get messy, Sherlock. You love it just as much as me, don’t you?”

And, God, Sherlock does. So much. It makes him feel like he’s really John’s when he’s messy and covered in bodily fluids and it’s all because that’s what John wanted, that’s what John did. It gets him off so quickly. “Yes, John,” he pants as John pulls his fingers out for a quick reprieve, palming his dick with all his might. “I love it. I love being yours.” 

“I know, darling,” he sighs, wanking himself faster as he reaches orgasm. “I was the first one in that beautiful mouth wasn’t I? The first one to see you like this. And do you know what really gets me off? Knowing I’m going to be the last and only one to ever take you, to ever fuck past those gorgeous, sinful lips.” 

He pulls his fingers out as he brings himself off, smearing the messy strings of saliva over Sherlock’s lips, which is enough to tip Sherlock over the edge, feeling loved and taken care of and messy and so John’s he can’t hold himself back anymore. 

They lie there fucked out and messy for a few minutes as John buries his face in Sherlock’s curls, breathing in the scent of his favourite person. “Right,” he says eventually, extracting himself from the bed and grabbing a small, damp flannel from the bathroom. He quickly rinses himself off before returning to the bedroom and gently cleansing Sherlock’s face, as he closes his eyes and leans into John’s touch, feeling reassured and comforted purely by the nearness of him. John then moves down to his sensitive cock and cleans it gently, trying not to make Sherlock hiss too much before quickly running to dump it in the laundry basket and rushing back to bed. He eases Sherlock out of his trousers and pants, sheds his own and then pulls the duvet over them. 

“Can you take your nighttime pills, darling?” he asks softly, easing Sherlock to sit up so he can swallow them down with a swig of the water by the side of the bed. “Well done. Are you okay?”

Sherlock nods, curling into John and burying his face in his chest hair, breathing in the post-sex musk that delivers a unique kind of comfort. “I love you, John.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Sleep well, gorgeous boy.” 

He follows not long after Sherlock, exhausted from the perfect end to a perfect day, revelling in being wrapped up in his favourite person in the world. 

★

Life goes on as the seasons change and summer comes into effect in full force. The warmth of the sun and the bright days seem to do wonders for Sherlock as his joints feel looser and his muscles aren’t as sore. That’s not to say it isn’t frustrating sometimes when he’s exhausted and just wants to lay in bed all day but the sun is too hot and bright to sleep and all he wants to do is join John on a picnic while he throws caution to the wind and lets John feed him strawberries as though they’re in some kind of hateful romantic comedy. 

Most of the time though, they get on with life. John works shifts at the surgery and Sherlock visits Molly in the morgue. They spend date nights at Angelo’s and stroll through Regent’s Park, and John even surprises him with a visit to a holiday cottage in Hartland, Devon in late July for their two year anniversary. They spend a week enjoying the seaside air and walking the cliffs, visiting nearby Abbeys and museums. (John finds it very amusing when Sherlock develops a random affinity for rock candy when he buys some for him spontaneously at a gift shop after Sherlock mentions he’s never tried it. He spends the rest of the holiday snacking on it continuously while John laughs himself silly.)

As nice as the holiday is, it does wipe Sherlock out a little and for the first week of August, he’s fairly tired and worn out. It doesn’t really feel like a proper flare-up, but he’s more fatigued than usual and spends most of the day reading on the sofa while John’s away and laying with his head on John’s lap while they watch a film when he gets home. 

It’s a roasting hot day when shit hits the fan, and it feels as though London is broiling. They wake up with the duvet on the floor having kicked it off in the night, despite the fan on, windows open and both of them starkers, and John throws a pair of boxers on and heads straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on. “Do you want some tea, Sherlock?” he calls to the bedroom, where Sherlock is trying to find the motivation to get up. 

“Yes, please,” he calls back, finally swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He picks the duvet up from the floor and dumps it on the bed, forgoing boxers unlike his partner, before making his way into the kitchen to sit at the table while John potters around making himself some tea and toast. “You alright?”

“I’m good, love,” John says cheerily. “Hot as balls but I expect everybody in the South East would agree this morning. You okay? Sleep well?”

“Yes, I’m all good,” Sherlock says, settling into his chair and putting his feet up on John’s, appreciating the sight of his very fit partner in some skimpy black boxers straining to reach the tea bags, making the muscles ripple in his back. “Enjoying the view.”

John laughs at that as he puts the teabags in each mug. “Cheeky bastard,” he chuckles, and Sherlock watches him glance at the clock on the wall. “Definitely don’t have time for any of that business, this morning. Got early clinic.”

Sherlock pouts. “Well then, you’ll have to hurry back later won’t you?” 

John turns around with the two cups of tea and places one in front of Sherlock, kissing him quickly before he nudges his feet off his chair and sits across from him. “I suppose I will. Although this heat might be a fairly effective cockblock.”

Sherlock hums around his mug, enjoying the taste of a fresh cup of tea and the easy morning routine of sitting with the love of his life in their cosy little kitchen. “We’ll find a way,” he says with an air of faux innocence, smiling coyly at John. 

“Pervert,” John snorts, finishing the last bite of his toast and taking the plate to the sink, grabbing Sherlock’s morning pills and a glass of water while he’s up. “Do you want anything to eat, sweetheart?”

Sherlock considers it as he downs his pills. He’s not overly nauseous so he agrees to a slice of buttered toast, which John serves up quickly while finishing the rest of his tea. “You’re too good to me,” Sherlock declares as John puts the plate down in front of him. 

“Never,” John denies, pulling his shoulders in for a side hug and kissing him again. “Right I’m going to jump in the shower, love.” 

Sherlock dutifully nibbles his toast and finishes his tea as he pulls yesterday’s newspaper towards him and looks over the crossword clues to entertain himself while he’s eating. He’s worked out all of the ‘down’ clues bar one stupid cultural reference and a good ⅔ of the ‘across’ ones by the time John walks back into the kitchen, freshly showered, shaved and dressed. “Ugh,” Sherlock groans as John brushes past him to tidy up their morning crockery. “You smell so good. Why do you have to smell so irresistible and then rudely abandon me?” He knows he’s pouting but he really can’t help it, it’s completely and utterly John’s fault. 

“Hush, you,” John laughs. “You’re only feeding my big ego. Besides, I’ll be back just after lunch and then I’m all yours, yeah?”

Sherlock nods and stands up to give John a hug as he collects his keys and wallet from the counter and moves to leave. “Love you,” he sighs into his neck, feeling John’s arms wrap firmly around his waist and sighing into his embrace. “Have a good day.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” John says as he pulls away. He kisses him quickly, and brushes a curl off his forehead fondly before he heads out the door. “See you later!” 

As the door closes behind John, an eerie silence settles over the flat as it always does once John leaves, so he opens all the windows in the living room and kitchen to let the London bustle drift into the flat and heads to the bathroom to shower and get ready for the day. He feels the first twinge in his leg as he steps out of the shower, but his body often protests at swinging and lifting motions, so he doesn’t think much of it at first. It goes away as he shaves and brushes his teeth, so the pain quickly slips his mind as he goes about his normal business for the next hour or so. 

It’s not until he’s sat at the dining room table completely stationary as he combs through a scientific study on the behaviour of three-throbed livers in amphibians and the pain starts up again at a much more noticeable level that he recognises it as something actually wrong. It’s a deep muscular ache, and he decides to ignore it at first and wait for it to pass as it often does. It doesn’t. 

Soon the ache has spread throughout his right leg and it feels as though it’s completely incapacitated his movements. He knows this is psychosomatic, he knows that nothing is really wrong with his leg and he should be able to move it but he just can’t override the signals in his body telling him that it can’t move. He manages to drag himself over to the counter where a small strip of codeine lies and he takes the maximum dose he’s been prescribed in a desperate attempt at relieving some of the agony coursing through his body. He crumbles to the floor after downing the pills and lays there trying to focus on anything but the pain. Soon though the throbbing ache has turned into a burning pain deep in his leg; it feels as though his bones are on fire and are shattering their burning embers into the surrounding muscle, as though if he looked down he’d see the smouldering skin and smoke billowing into the room. 

He manages to pull his phone from his pocket and dials the number for John’s surgery, knowing that he keeps his own mobile switched off in his bag from the numerous times Sherlock has pestered him at work with ‘emergencies’ in a ploy to get him back home. When the receptionist picks up, he manages to squeeze out between gritted teeth, “It’s Sherlock. Get John, please, medical emergency.” He knows the receptionist says something back to him but he can’t reply, the nausea generated from the pain so intense it’s as though he’s been bowled over. 

An indeterminate amount of time passes before he hears the front door burst open and John run over to the kitchen straight away, not bothering to dump any of his stuff. “Sherlock, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” John says rather loudly, clearly trying to break through the cloud of pain shrouding Sherlock. His voice is urgent but Sherlock can’t find the words to reply, the pain has exhausted him and it’s shrouding everything around him. The codeine has done absolutely fuck all, and tears are streaming down his face, not that he can remember when they started. He does manage, however, to point down at his leg. He’s sweated through his clothes, the sweltering heat and burning pain combining to overheat his body. 

John quickly gets to work and gently rolls Sherlock onto his side so he can ease him out of his shirt, careful to minimally jostle him. He removes his socks but leaves his trousers, despite them being soaked through, knowing that to even attempt to take them off would cause intense pain. He then measures his pulse and blood pressure. Just as he’s about to talk to Sherlock again, Sherlock cries out as the pain surges to a new height and he’s virtually stifling screams at this point. Despite feeling boiling hot, Sherlock’s skin is cold to the touch and covered in goosebumps and his teeth are chattering. His hands are shaking and he’s clearly scared. “Okay, love, your blood pressure and heart rate are way too high and you’re displaying some clear clinical signs of extreme pain, so I’m going to call an ambulance, alright?” 

He calls an ambulance while he gently lifts Sherlock’s head to rest in his lap and tentatively runs his fingers through his hair, careful to avoid brushing his scalp too much, knowing that any sensory input is likely to be interpreted as pain in this state. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” John says soothingly after he’s assured by the operator that an ambulance is on its way. “It’s going to be okay. We just need to get you some fluids and manage your pain at the hospital so we can bring your blood pressure and heart rate down, yeah?”

The paramedics let themselves in as John instructed on the phone, and John quickly tells them that he’s a doctor before giving them the rundown on Sherlock’s condition. In the 40 minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive, his pain hadn’t decreased at all, and he is still crying out regularly as the pain throbs and burns, consuming him from the inside out. The paramedics introduce themselves as Fred and Laura and take their own measurements while calmly talking to a scared and disoriented Sherlock. They gently move Sherlock onto the stretcher and carry him carefully down the stairs and into an ambulance, and John is grateful that Mrs Hudson is out and doesn’t have to witness this. 

It’s not until Sherlock experiences a small amount of incontinence in the ambulance on the way to the hospital that John really starts to worry. Sherlock had been displaying various clinical signs of severe pain which hadn’t been particularly shocking, but the indignity of having no control of his bladder while he’s fearful and confused is heartbreaking. It’s a physical sign of the intense experience Sherlock’s body is having and in that moment he wishes beyond all measure that he could take the love of his life’s place. 

They’re rushed quickly through A&E once they get there, probably because Sherlock’s cries are so unsettling and his stats are looking slightly worrying. A friendly but efficient doctor meets them in the cubicle, pulling the curtain around her. Sherlock’s face breaks John’s heart, he’s clearly even more disoriented now they’re in a busy and confusing environment and he’s still crying out in pain as his eyes and face periodically scrunch up. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she says. “I’m Dr Andrews. What seems to be going on, Sherlock?”

Sherlock clearly registers his name but can’t reply, so John steps in. “Sherlock has fibromyalgia and this seems to be a severe flare-up, we’ve never had to deal with this. I’m also a doctor, and took his vitals and realised that he needed medical attention. I noticed that he’d taken two 30mg codeine tablets from the strip on the counter at home but they don’t seem to have done anything. He was absolutely fine when I left for work at 7 so this has been a quick onset.” 

“Okay,” Dr Andrews hums and pauses for a moment, considering. “Now since you’ve never experienced pain this severe as part of your chronic condition, Sherlock, I’m going to send you for some diagnostic imaging. It’s very dangerous when you do have a chronic illness to chalk everything up to that, because you can miss something really serious. So I’m going to admit you, we’re going to administer tramadol intravenously in quite a high dose to try and bring your pain levels down, and if in four hours you’re still in severe pain then we’ll switch to morphine. If your blood pressure doesn’t come down as your pain eases it’s likely that your ward doctor will prescribe an ACE inhibitor but it shouldn’t come to that. If you can’t keep any food or water down in the next hour then we’ll also hook you up to fluids to prevent dehydration. Does that sound okay to the two of you?” 

Sherlock had clung to John’s sleeve as soon as they’d entered A&E, recognising him as the only grounding point in such a situation, and his grip tightens as she speaks. “Sherlock?” John asks gently, leaning in close to him and brushing a sweaty curl off his forehead, hoping that the familiar action will bring him some comfort. “Did you hear what Dr Andrews said? Does that sound okay?”

Sherlock manages a sharp nod before he cries out in pain again, twisting his upper body in protest. Dr Andrews smiles at them both. “That’s great, I’ll get a porter to come along as soon as possible. Do you think you’ll be able to transfer to a wheelchair or do we need to do a bed move?”

John looks his partner over again. “I think we’ll need to do a bed move.”

Three hours later, John’s sat by Sherlock’s bed on a quiet ward on the other side of the hospital. The tramadol had worked for the pain but it had triggered his nausea and he’d ended up on IV ondansetron and fluids. At least he’s wiped out, though, John thinks gratefully as he observes Sherlock’s sleeping form, he just hopes to God he isn’t in pain while he’s unconscious. Confident Sherlock will be asleep for a good while, John steps out of the ward and calls Greg. 

“Hi, John,” Greg says cheerily when he answers his phone, background noise almost absent, indicating he’s at the office and not out on a case. Sherlock would be proud of all the deductions John’s making today, he thinks tiredly.

“Hi, mate,” John says back, running a hand over his face. “Listen, Sherlock’s in the hospital.”

“What?” Greg sounds immediately concerned. “What’s going on?”

“He’s had a flare-up and his pain was just astronomical. His vitals weren’t looking good and he couldn’t move so I had to call an ambulance, it’s just--” John pauses and sighs. He looks up at the ceiling. “Look, we’re at St Mary’s. Would you be able to drop by at some point? I’m sure Mycroft will be along shortly but I could use a friend, something to do and also a change of clothes. Sherlock’s dead to the world and even when he wakes up he’ll be pretty dosed up.” He feels bad asking so much of Greg, but they’re good friends and he’s past the toxic masculinity that used to rule his life and prevent him from asking for help. 

“John, mate, of course. I’m just on case review and boring office work this afternoon and I can do that any time, so I’ll pop round now. Unless I get called to a case I can stay as long as you need. Shall I stop by Baker Street and pick your stuff up? What do you need?” Greg asks. John can hear him moving around in his office now and thanks the Lord for a good friend like him. 

“Yeah, that would be great.” John can hear the relief in his own voice. “If you could pick up a few books from the side table, the newspaper, and a pair of shorts and t-shirt from the left side of the wardrobe in our room that would be excellent. Then we could venture down to the hospital cafeteria while Sherlock sleeps?” 

“Sounds perfect, mate, I’ll be right there. See you in a few.” 

While John’s waiting for Greg, a doctor comes along to check on Sherlock. “Hi, there,” John says, standing to shake his hand. “I’m Dr Watson, this is Sherlock.”

“Good afternoon, doctor,” he replies, smiling. “I’m Dr Kone. I’m just here to check on Mr Holmes here. His blood pressure is coming down, that’s good.” He bustles around Sherlock for a little while, assessing his vitals against his chart and ensuring that nothing is alarming. 

“Yeah, his skin is warming up and before he fell asleep he seemed a little more aware of himself despite the drowsiness from the tramadol,” John offers, putting his hand in his pocket. 

Dr Kone moves away from the bed, seemingly satisfied with what he’d found. “Yes,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll be right as rain in no time. I do still think that we should carry out the diagnostic imaging that Dr Andrews ordered, just to rule anything serious out.” 

“About that,” John starts, “what tests have you actually ordered? I haven’t been told anything, not even when they’ll be taking place.” His brow knits a little as the overwhelming nature of the situation catches up to him a little. 

“So he’s going for a PET scan, an MRI and an x-ray, all scheduled for tomorrow morning,” Dr Kone says, giving him another smile when John nods in thanks. “Right, well I’ll be getting on then. You’re clearly an excellent friend, Dr Watson, for staying with Sherlock like this.”

John’s face knots in confusion for a moment. “Oh,” he says, stuttering. “No, Sherlock is my partner. Of course I’m staying with him.”

“Oh, pardon me,” Dr Kone says, smile falling in embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I do apologise. Well, I’ll leave you to it, doctor, and I’ll see you and Mr Holmes here later.” 

While an awkward moment, it greatly amuses Greg not an hour later when they’re sat in the hospital canteen eating chips and chicken nuggets with John in some fresh clothes. “How did that manage to slip past him?” he laughs. “The whole Yard knew you were together before you bloody buffoons did, you’re not exactly subtle!” 

“God,” John laughs, a little disbelievingly. “Isn’t that true. We did take our sweet time, didn’t we?” 

“You sure did, mate,” Greg confirms, patting him on the back. “But you got there in the end. How’s he doing?”

“Ah,” John sighs. “Alright. He’s conked out from the tramadol but it definitely eased his pain although it made him sick as a dog and is now on even more medication to manage those side effects. But the worrying stats like his heart rate and blood pressure have come right down, which is reassuring. He’ll be okay but pain like that is traumatic and he’ll be exhausted for a good week or so, I expect.” He pauses for a moment as he considers Sherlock. “It just feels unfair. Out of all the people in the world, this had to affect Sherlock. He doesn’t deserve it, he just doesn’t. And having to watch him suffer, watch pieces of him - albeit little - be chipped away is a special kind of torture, I’ll tell you that.”

Greg nods in sympathy. “He’s always seemed so indestructible,” he muses, picking at his chips and nuggets. “I never bought into that bullshit ‘sociopath’ narrative he tried to sell, but even when he was hopped up on cocaine or detoxing or hadn’t showered in weeks because he forgot how to take care of himself, he’d always been Sherlock, he’d always seemed so solid, so steadfast. And he’s still Sherlock, you know, but there’s a more fragile edge to him I’ve never seen before.”

“It’s definitely forced him to get vulnerable in ways he never had before,” John says thoughtfully. “He’s always been more fragile with me, especially once we got together, than other people have seen him, but now certain situations mean that he has to show that side to other people, and that’s never happened before.”

Greg’s about to reply when John’s mobile rings on the table and Mycroft’s name flashes on the screen. “I’d better take this,” he says apologetically, before sliding the button to answer it and wandering out into the quieter hallway. “Mycroft.”

“John,” Mycroft says in that vaguely snooty way he has of saying just about anything. “I’m rather offended I haven’t heard from you. My dear brother appears to be hospitalised.”

John snorts. “Mm, I’m sure you definitely needed me to inform you that Sherlock’s in hospital,” he says sceptically. “You seem to have found out just fine on your own.” 

“I hear these behaviours are customary conduct, John,” Mycroft says, “but no matter. How is he?” For all the air of arrogance that circles around Mycroft Holmes, John has never been able to deny that he cares deeply about Sherlock; he would move mountains for him. He knows that although it’s been from afar, it’s been just as hard to watch Sherlock suffering for Mycroft than it has been for John, despite not seeing the nitty gritty details. He’s clearly concerned about his brother. 

“He’s alright, Mycroft,” John says. “I’m sure you can find out all the technical details on your own, but he’s asleep and will likely remain asleep until later this afternoon, and even then he’ll be drowsy. He’s exhausted and still feeling a lot of the pain, most likely.” The corridor is fairly empty, with doors swinging open only periodically, and his words seem to fill the space, feeling much bigger than they really are. 

“I see,” Mycroft says, and John can’t figure out what he’s thinking. “Well, I shall be along in a few hours then, when he’s most likely to be awake. I’ll bring him a change of clothes and some home comforts. Do you need anything yourself?”

“No,” John says. “No, I’m good. Greg brought me some stuff from the flat and is just grabbing some food with me before heading back to the office later.”

“Ah,” Mycroft says, and pauses for just a beat too long, almost as if he’s about to say something but decided against it. “Right then. Well, I shall see you and Sherlock later. Goodbye.” 

Sherlock’s exhausted after Mycroft’s visit. Both he and Greg had been respectful of his space and hadn’t stayed long and he was grateful for their concern, but all he wanted to do was be held by John and fall back asleep. “John,” he says tiredly, pulling on his hand. He’s currently sitting beside the hospital bed. “Can you come up?” 

“Love,” John says hesitantly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, there’s not much room and I’m pretty sure the nurses wouldn’t like it.”

The exhaustion and frustration overwhelm Sherlock and he feels his eyes burn. He feels stupid, needing the comfort John provides so desperately, but he just can’t help it. The past few years he’d become accustomed to John being his security blanket, providing him with a level of companionship and gentleness that he hadn’t realised he was missing so desperately. He often tells John that he never realised how lonely he was until he showed up in the morgue at Barts that day. It only worsened when they got together and suddenly he was allowed to cuddle John, to kiss him, to feel him in places he never dreamed anyone would want to touch. So at his most vulnerable moment, when he’s drowsy and still a little disoriented, when he can still feel the dull burn of his muscles, despite the tramadol, he just wants John and he can’t have him. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and prevent the tears from seeping out. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” John relents as he sees Sherlock’s emotions spilling over. “Let me just readjust your IVs so I don’t tug on them, yeah? Okay, can you scooch over a little, love? I don’t want to jostle you too much.” They eventually manage to arrange themselves so that John is sat right on the edge with Sherlock draping mostly over him on his front, which he said would make him more comfortable, head nestled under John’s chin, breathing him in. John had always found it endearing how much Sherlock loved how he smelled, how sexual it was for him in bed and how important it was for him in comfort and romance. “Do you feel better now, Sherlock?” 

He nods his head, brushing his curls over John’s 5 o’clock shadow, drawing John’s hand to nestle deeply into them, pulling gently at the strands and marvelling at how it never failed to make Sherlock melt, close to actual purring. “Love you, John,” Sherlock whispers, squeezing his hip where his left hand was lying.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” John whispers back. “So, so much. It hurts sometimes.”

“Me too,” Sherlock whispers, a little quieter. “Soppy.” John feels his breathing deepen and even out and reaches for his book lying on the side table, always prepared for the eventuality that Sherlock will fall asleep on him. Just the thought of that; the thought that Sherlock is his, that he feels comfortable with him, that they’re it for one another now, that after everything they’ve been through together - and apart - they’ve ended up here, hits him like a tidal wave. After all this time, after longing to have this exact situation: Sherlock draped across him, content and peaceful, he has it. He has Sherlock. And what more could he want? 

When Dr Kone peeks his head round the curtain they’d drawn around the bed at 8pm for evening rounds, Sherlock is completely conked out again, breathing heavily with his face against John’s t-shirt. The hospital was thankfully air-conditioned, but he was still sweating way too much for one of Sherlock’s favourite jumpers. John puts down his book - a crime novel that Sherlock had snootily turned his nose up when John had purchased it at WH-Smith’s in a way that would have offended him years ago and now just makes him nudge his side and tell him fondly to shut up - and greets him. He’s sort of pleased that Sherlock’s very unconscious and not able to dress him down after John had told him about the awkward encounter earlier. 

“Evening, Dr Watson,” Dr Kone smiles. “How’s our patient doing?”

“He’s a little frustrated and teary, which is how we got into this situation,” he laughs, gesturing to their very intertwined bodies. If Dr Kone had met them for the first time in this position, he doubts he’d take them for ‘friends’, John thinks amusedly. “But overall, his stats look good and his pain is dulled, although he can still feel it to a reasonable extent so it’s definitely still there and simply mollified by the tramadol rather than eliminated. His body isn’t displaying the worrying signs of stress that he was admitted with, though.” 

“I see,” Dr Kone says, stepping closer to jot down the stats recorded on the screen next to Sherlock’s bed. “Yes, his blood pressure and heart rate are completely back to normal. Of course, what we don’t want to happen is for them to skyrocket again if we take him off the tramadol and he experiences the same pain, taking us back to square one.” He frowns a little as he reviews the chart in front of him. “We’ll wait until tomorrow and see how he’s doing then, but he’ll have to come off the drugs at some point, so we’ll monitor things closely. I see my colleague has noted that if he experiences persistent high blood pressure then ACE inhibitors are an option, which is true, of course. Anyway, no use worrying over it now.” Dr Kone replaces his frown with his staple smile and looks back up at John. “Right, Dr Watson, I will leave you to it. Are you all set up for your overnight stay?”

“Yes,” John affirms. “The nurse has arranged for a cot to be brought in by 9, at which time I’ll leave sleeping beauty here to have the bed to himself. But I can’t deny that being close to him is somewhat of a comfort to me as well after seeing him in so much pain today,” John smiles woefully, looking down at Sherlock’s angelic sleeping face.

“I can only imagine,” Dr Kone smiles. “Good night, Dr Watson.” 

John wishes him a good night in turn and picks his novel back up, bringing his other hand to lightly brush through Sherlock’s curls once again, which he leans into even in sleep, making John smile fondly. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. 

After the staff in the diagnostic imaging departments are confident that there’s nothing else going on in Sherlock’s body aside from his chronic condition, they meet with Dr Kone the next morning to discuss discharge and pain management. Sherlock had woken up feeling slightly better, with the burning pain even duller than the night before, but he still didn’t feel quite right, was exhausted and the pain was still there, of course. “Okay, Sherlock, what I’m going to do is prescribe you tramadol in tablet form to take home with you. I’m going to give you enough for 10 days, just to be sure. This also means that if you feel able to stop earlier, then you have a few in reserve in case of another severe pain overload that might require hospitalisation or a doctors’ visit if you didn’t have the tablets. Does that sound okay?” Dr Kone asks. 

Sherlock, propped up in bed and much more alert than the day before, nods in agreement. He feels much more grounded with John’s hand wrapped around his. 

“That sounds great, doctor, thank you,” John says. “Is there a pharmacy in the hospital?” 

“Yes there is, it’s on the ground floor not far from the canteen,” Dr Kone affirms, looking back down at his notes. “Now, I want you both to monitor your condition really closely, okay? If there is any sign of increased heart rate or blood pressure again or any other signs that pain is seriously stressing the body, you need to take the right steps straight away. Don’t hesitate to come back to hospital if you need to, but it’s most likely that you’ll now be fine to be managed by Dr… Cheboi in general practice.”

“That won’t be a problem,” John chuckles, looking over at Sherlock who meets his knowing grin.

“I can guarantee you that John won’t let me out of his sight for at least the next week,” Sherlock smiles, feeling John’s fingers squeeze his gently. 

Dr Kone laughs. “Well that’s good. That’s exactly what we need for you, Mr Holmes,” he says, standing up and getting ready to leave their corner of the ward. “I’ll have a nurse along with the discharge papers and prescription slip and you can get back to resting at your own place. In the nicest possible way, gentlemen, I hope I never see you again.” He shakes both their hands and says his goodbyes before slipping out of the cubicle and moving onto his next patient. 

★

John is making them an afternoon cup of tea while the radio plays quietly in the background a week after getting home from hospital when Sherlock appears in the doorway propped up on his crutches. He’d been resting on the sofa, alternating between watching TV, reading, looking through cold cases and napping for most of the day, and he hadn’t shown the tell tale signs of a Sherlockian boredom breakdown yet so he can see his sudden appearance surprises John. “Alright, love?” he asks as he pours the water over the teabag in his mug before moving over to Sherlock’s. 

He looks over to see Sherlock worrying his bottom lip, looking nervous (which John always guiltily finds adorable). “Lestrade rang,” he says. He tries to keep his voice neutral but years of becoming Sherlock-fluent means he can’t fool John any more: he can see that this is clearly a point of emotional contention for him, he’s clearly wrestling with the implications. Sherlock’s still in a lot of pain. He’s off the tramadol now, but still taking the odd codeine and his legs rarely leave the comfortable wrap of the heated blanket. The pain isn’t distressing and he’s able to think about other things most of the time, but his mobility is still severely impaired, not able to override the signals from his brain telling him that he absolutely cannot move his leg. 

John calmly stirs the milk and sugar into Sherlock’s tea, considering the implications of such a statement. He leaves his black because that is apparently the “proper” way to drink tea; he always likes to make fun of Sherlock’s sweet tooth when he hands him his milky cup. Sherlock turns his nose up at such teasing and says he hates it. He doesn’t. “Well,” John says carefully, turning around with a mug in each hand. “We did buy a wheelchair for this exact purpose, Sherlock.” 

He nudges him back to the living room while Sherlock digests that statement, directing him to the sofa and handing him his mug when he’s sat comfortably among the nest of cushions and blankets he’s collected over the last few weeks. The pillows and duvets from John’s old room have come down and made a permanent home in their living room, and John can’t say he’s opposed to the whole flat being a kind of pillow fort. It’s very homely. 

“Okay,” Sherlock says eventually, once a few sips of tea have had a chance to warm his stomach and clear his mind. “If people stare, that's on them.” He sounds decisive, but really he’s scared. For years he maintained a very convincing show of not caring about what others think, but he knows that deep down he’s hopelessly insecure and vulnerable to others’ opinions of him, no matter what he tried to tell himself. He remembers the deep, cutting feeling that settled into his stomach when he’d hear the rude comments of the uniformed Yarders, the way he used to shove it down and ignore it, refuse to acknowledge that he was human enough for these things to affect him. 

John, of course, sees right through him. “If it’s too much right now, love, you don’t have to. You can just get the photos and facts emailed to you again, yeah? That’s been working well.” 

It’s been working well, but not well enough. There’s nothing like arriving at a crime scene and noticing things that the idiotic forensics wouldn’t even think to count as evidence and photograph. He misses the rush, misses being in his element and he knows then that he can’t put off being himself for much longer. 

“No, I want to. I want to do it.” 

It takes a decent amount of time to get a taxi to actually stop for them with Sherlock sat in his wheelchair, but once they arrive at the crime scene, it’s virtually a godsend. People are too awkward about disability, too unsure of what to say to him, that they largely ignore him, though they don’t hold back on the staring. It seems like even the Yarders have enough intelligence to know that mocking a disabled person is very poor taste -- everyone except Philip Anderson who makes a snide comment about Sherlock coming out as a transformer. Lestrade shut him up quicker than even John, which puts a satisfied smirk on Sherlock’s face as he hobbles around the body on his two crutches while John guards the chair. Even in excruciating pain, Sherlock solves the case in just under 40 minutes and manages to insult no less than 6 people in the process -- though much less scathingly than he would have in previous years, he sees John note approvingly -- before they’re in the back of Lestrade’s police car and on the way back to Baker Street. (The outing definitely tires him out, but what is John’s shoulder for if not Sherlock’s tired head?)

★

The late September weather brings a sleepy kind of rain to London, the flat a warm and comfortable safe haven against the grey and miserable backdrop of the city. Sherlock spends many an afternoon sat at the window listening to the calming sounds of the rain while John’s at the surgery, enjoying watching the grey sunsets and the darkening of the world as the city goes to sleep. John often sits and listens to Sherlock play his violin with the accompanying track of the early morning downpour. The autumnal weather gives their lives a calming, quiet quality to it that they desperately need following their busy, somewhat chaotic summer. 

That is until John bursts through the door one afternoon, cursing violently as he shakes his umbrella out in the doorway (which he always tells Sherlock off for, though he doubts this is the time to point that out), shaking Sherlock from his calm reverie of sitting with his eyes closed, listening to the noises of the rainy city drift into the living room. “John?” he asks immediately, concerned. “What’s wrong?” He rises from his place on the sofa and walks over to his partner, placing a hand on John’s to stop him fussing with the umbrella. Brows knit in confusion, he eases John’s arms out from his soaked through coat while he toes his shoes off. 

Back into his jumper and socks, John turns to face Sherlock and plants his face immediately into his shoulder, prompting Sherlock to envelop him into a hug immediately. “What’s happened, love?” he whispers into John’s temple, heart breaking for his clearly agitated partner. He can deduce the vast majority of it, of course, but he’s learned over the years that John is much more receptive to being asked about what’s bothering him so he can vent about it than just being told Sherlock already knows. He wonders if it’s as painful for John when he watches Sherlock in pain. 

“Had the most rotten day,” he sighs, bringing his head out of its newfound home in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Got a complaint from a patient at the surgery. I’m not worried or anything, the guy’s notorious for making false complaints about every bleeding GP in London and Sarah told me they know I was in the right, but it’s still royally ticked me off. Then I had a screaming baby in the waiting room for a good 45 minutes because the health practitioners ran over and my head’s pounding. And my umbrella broke when I got off at Baker Street and couldn’t stop in the station to fix it because it was so steamed up and busy thanks to the rain, so I had to hold it up with my left hand the rest of the walk home, with water running down my sleeve and all. I’m fucking knackered now. Look, can we just sit down?”

“Okay, you sit over there,” Sherlock says, gently rubbing John’s soaked jumper arm briefly before nudging him to the sofa and wrapping the already turned on heated blanket around his shoulder. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He nips into the kitchen and switches the kettle on before heading to the bathroom and running the hot water for a bath, using the lavender salts John keeps in the cabinet above the mirror rather liberally, and tipping a preposterous amount of his own vanilla cream wash into the running stream. He gets a long-sleeved t-shirt and pyjama bottoms for John to change into after the bath and grabs a fresh change of clothes for him too before returning to the kitchen to finish off their mugs of tea and grab a paracetamol tablet for his headache. 

Fitting two grown men into a bathtub is not an easy feat, but once they’re both settled into opposite ends of the bath, legs tangled and slotted together, it’s worth it. Their tub was thankfully just large enough to accommodate them and the taps were in the middle rather than at one end making a double bath easy enough on evenings like this one. Seeing John’s relaxed face, eyes closed and tense lines evened out, surrounded by lavender and vanilla scented bubbles as John sips on his black tea. If Sherlock were a certain kind of person he’d insist he could feel the drama and irritations of the day melting away, swept gently off his shoulders by the warm water. 

“Thank you for this, sweetheart,” John says after a few moments of them both relaxing into the comfort of one another’s quiet company and the bubble bath. He creeps his hand along the side of the bath to meet Sherlock’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“I’m enjoying it just as much as you,” Sherlock smiles. The warmth of the water is relaxing the stiffness in his muscles and joints borne from sitting in one position for too long and he feels immediately better with John back in his company, too. 

An hour later they’re sat in their pyjamas watching an episode of QI with a buffet of chinese food spread out on the coffee table. Sherlock had hated QI at the beginning of their relationship, insisting that the inane, benign facts were just clutter in his brain until John had pointed out one evening that surely he could just enjoy the show while he was watching it and delete any of the useless facts afterwards. Sherlock found that a very difficult point to dispute. When the cartons are mostly empty and Sherlock has graciously let John have the last egg roll, John pulls him into his lap and immediately plunges his fingers into his hair. “You’ve been so wonderful this evening, love,” John says, and Sherlock can feel just how relaxed he is with his head against him so closely. “What would I do without you?”

“Well you’d probably still be cursing out an umbrella,” Sherlock points out as he nuzzles closer into the clean, quintessentially John scent of his t-shirt. 

John chuckles. “You’d be right about that. Bleeding thing.” He pauses for a moment as Jimmy Carr makes a risky joke. “I love you, you know?”

“I do know,” Sherlock says, completely sincere. “I love you, too. So much.”

“So much,” John echoes in a whisper, before leaning down to kiss the shell of Sherlock’s ear with a tenderness that makes it hard to breathe. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Lisel Mueller's Poem [Alive Together](https://wordsfortheyear.com/2017/08/30/alive-together-by-lisel-mueller/)
> 
> [Rebloggable Tumblr Post](https://effortlesslie.tumblr.com/post/626538088501477376/what-spring-does-with-cherry-trees)


	3. You Are Here. Oh You Do Not Run Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culmination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Cornelia Street - Taylor Swift  
> Better man - James Morrison  
> Magic - Coldplay  
> Feels like this - Maisie Peters  
> Lucky - Jason Mraz & Connie Caillat  
> Home - Bruno Major

I used to wonder why I'm here  
No rhyme, no reason would appear  
But since we've met it's loud and clear  
I'm here to see you  
Home.

Home; Bruno Major

Sherlock knows it’s his fault. He’s had a Class A rotten day: he was completely off his game at the crime scene they visited earlier, Donovan was a royal bitch and made him feel pretty crap about himself to be honest, and he can tell that he’s getting on John’s nerves. He also knows that being grotty in response to that is not the solution to pissing him off, but it feels as though it’s bubbling its way out of him in a way it hasn’t in years. 

The thing is, though, he’s in pain. So much pain. And it feels more frustrating and distressing today than it usually does. He’s sick of it, he’s sick of not doing the things he wants to do just because his body is holding him back - something it has never previously had the power to do - he’s sick of crying in pain at night, trying to hold in his sobs so he doesn’t wake John, and mostly he’s sick of constantly hurting. Everywhere. All the time. Places he had never thought of in his life are suddenly screaming at him: the spaces in between his toes, the tendons in his wrist, the area behind his ear. It all hurts relentlessly, and he’s so, so tired. 

John, however, is not a mindreader, and since Sherlock’s communication skills are not on par with his, he has no idea how his partner is feeling. Sherlock knows that when he’s silent in response to John’s question because he can’t decide whether he wants to lie on the sofa or sit in his chair or go to bed, John just thinks he’s being difficult. The truth is, though, that he simply cannot decide. He doesn’t have the energy. “Sherlock, come on,” John says, and it’s through gritted teeth, he knows. “Just choose. Sofa, chair or bed. It isn’t hard, love.” The ‘love’ is purely to soften his words; Sherlock knows that John is not exactly in the mood for pet names at the moment. After another moment of watching Sherlock stare directly at the ground not moving an inch, even though he’s desperate to lie down and feel the relief as his back doesn’t have to hold him up anymore, John curses under his breath. “Right, well if you’re going to be like that, Sherlock, you can sort yourself out,” he mutters angrily, fists clenching and unclenching as he stomps to the kitchen to moodily make some tea. Sherlock knows it will only be one cup. Passive aggressive tea making is his least favourite trait of John’s.

Sherlock is left standing there, face burning as he feels lost and confused and irritated and sore. Eventually, he manages to move a few steps left and collapse onto the sofa, and it’s not long before John comes along and sits in the chair nearby. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, voice still tight and even in his tired state Sherlock can read John’s pissed off body language clear as day. 

“No, John, I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” As soon as the words slip out of his mouth, he sees his mistake. He knows his voice was cutting and dismissive, obviously perceived as rude by the man who was simply trying to be patient and help Sherlock out. He doesn’t want John to leave him alone. As long as he lives, he will never ever want that, and yet in the heat of the moment he couldn’t help resorting to the way in which he’s dealt with animosity and frustration for years before John finally kissed him for the first time. Before he consciously made an effort to treat him with more respect. 

Once again, however, John is not a mindreader. He doesn’t see just how much Sherlock is regretting what he just said. “Do you know what, Sherlock? You can be a real damn piece of work. I’m here trying to help you and you’re being the same nasty arsehole you used to be. Maybe you haven’t changed, maybe you never will,” John seethes, leaping from his chair and storming around the room. 

“No, John-” 

“No, do you know what? I don’t know why the fuck I put up with you - all of you - sometimes. God, I can’t fucking do this right now.” He grabs his jacket and slams the door behind him. 

The only sign he’s been there at all that day is a still steaming, half-drunk cup of tea on the side table. 

Sherlock feels a cold kind of fear settle into his bones as soon as he hears the heavy front door to 221 slam, rattling the house with the force John puts behind it. The tears swiftly follow. The last thing he wants to do is alienate the one person who has ever loved him properly in this world, just the thought of it pools dread in his stomach. It’s not a thought he’s entertained for years. At the start of their relationship, in the first few months, Sherlock waited with baited breath for the moment John would walk out the door and never come back. Or, more accurately, to sit him down politely one evening and tell him kindly that Sherlock wasn’t what he thought he’d be; that he expected him to change and he didn’t; that Sherlock wasn’t satisfying him in bed or otherwise; that he wasn’t attractive enough; that he wanted the kind of partner who slept 8 hours at night and didn’t conduct experiments on severed fingertips. 

Over time, he’d gradually let those fears go. John had caught on and reassured him constantly, holding him closely and whispering just a few of the reasons he loved him into his ear before proving it to him, loving every inch of Sherlock so thoroughly that it began to replace all of those fears that paralysed him at the start of their relationship. 

Now though, it’s different. John fell in love with a man who thrived on danger in the way he did, a man who chased criminals for the thrill of it, who lit up at the idea of jumping across the roofs of London, who could keep up with him sexually. John fell in love with a different Sherlock. How can he expect him to stay now he’s broken? He’s the same frustrated genius, the same self-consumed, arrogant, irritating man he was when John fell for him, but now his body is being invaded by an illness that is taking little bits of him away. Now John has to take care of him, monitor how he’s feeling, spend nights in hospital, spend way more days in bed than they ever did before. He never signed up for any of this. 

Sherlock starts to realise just how naive he’s been. John is a good man, but surely nobody is good enough to stay with the burden that Sherlock carries. He wasn’t really loveable before - although John managed to convince him otherwise, he really shouldn’t have been so gullible - so how could he possibly be loved now? Much less by John Watson. 

John’s right, he realises miserably. He’d worked so hard to change, to be a better person than he used to be; one who apologises and thinks of John’s feelings and listens to him even when his stories are boring. But he was still Sherlock. He was still painfully, irreversibly himself. John shouldn’t have to put up with him anymore. It’s unfair that he’s been forced to put up with him at all for so long, that he shouldn’t be surprised John’s finally reached his limit. Nasty piece of work, that’s what he’d said, wasn’t it? The words twist themselves into a gnarly, all-consuming self-loathing inside his head. Wouldn’t it be nice, just for once, to not have to be himself? He doesn’t like himself, he never has, but those feelings of self-loathing have been far less potent over the last two years, after settling into a rhythm with John Watson who tried to prove everyday that he was worth loving and all those feelings coming back at full force feel as though they’re winding him. 

He thinks back to what Sally Donovan had creully whispered to him earlier at the crime scene. He’d been curt with John -- that was absolutely his fault -- but he hadn’t thought her comment was warranted. As soon as John had pursed his lips and left to chat with Lestrade, she’d leant in. “If you keep pissing him off, he’s going to leave you, freak. He doesn’t have to stay, you know. Have to remember you have… an extra incentive for him to find somebody else now,” she’d said casually before crossing her arms and stalking off to bark an order at one of the uniforms. 

He’d tried so hard to ignore the comment at the time, along with the hurt that spread across his chest, but the full implication of her words hits him now like a punch to his gut. John deserves somebody who could give him the sense of danger Sherlock knew he was missing now he mostly solved cases from the sofa or kitchen table, somebody who could keep up with him in every part of a relationship. John deserves somebody better than Sherlock. 

His mobile ringing pulls him from his thought, and in a blind moment of hope he answers. “John?” he asks, voice breathless. 

“I’m afraid not,” Mycroft responds, keeping his voice level, though Sherlock can hear some notes in it that he can’t quite place. “I see there’s been a little domestic.” He sounds so painfully tight and polite sometimes it makes Sherlock roll his eyes. 

“It’s none of your business, Mycroft,” Sherlock mumbles, deflating upon realising it was not John coming home to wrap him up and never let him go. There’s no bite to his reply, though. He’s not going to alienate the only other person in the world who truly cares for him on the same day as fucking everything up with John. 

“Your wellbeing is every bit my business, brother dear,” Mycroft replies, voice softened at the edges slightly. He pauses for just a moment. “Are you okay, Sherlock?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, but only because he’s positive that if he opens his mouth he’ll sob rather embarrassingly rather than reply. “I think I’ve ruined everything,” Sherlock whispers eventually, blinking back hot tears. “I’m not sure he’s ever going to come back.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs.

“I know, I know,” Sherlock interrupts miserably, voice mangled in his throat. “Caring is not an advantage, I should have never got involved. You can save it for another time.” 

“That’s not what I was going to say. I rather think a certain Doctor Watson is at fault in this situation,” he says in a slightly harsher tone, a tone which usually indicates nothing good to Sherlock.

“It’s not his fault,” Sherlock insists, slightly petulantly. “I fucked things up. It was me. I got poorly, I’m the irritable one. He won’t want to stay with me much longer. Who would? John deserves so much more than what I can give him; he didn’t sign up for this.” God, it’s been a long time since Sherlock spoke so honestly of his feelings to Mycroft. It hasn’t been this way since he was a teenager. 

Mycroft sighs again. “Sherlock,” he begins. “I cannot imagine a universe in which John would ever choose to leave you. He’s quite in love with you, and he’s the type of man who understands that sickness does not change that. He understands that these things happen, and I very much doubt that he’ll ever truly conscience a thought of leaving Baker Street.”

“If he did I’d never walk this street again,” Sherlock says firmly. “I’d leave London. I’d never come back.” 

“I know, Sherlock,” Mycroft says comfortingly. “That’s not going to happen. And the truth of the matter is that if Dr Watson ever did hurt you in such a manner, retribution would be swiftly delivered.” He sounds cold when imagining a circumstance that would warrant such action, and Sherlock knows how protective Mycroft can be of him. He’s always secretly loved it when people feel that way about him. He’s spent so much of his life feeling worthless that when somebody shows him that they feel he’s valuable enough to protect - even if that person is his meddling big brother - it pools something warm in his stomach. 

“I know,” Sherlock whispers. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Mycroft asks. “Do I need to come over?”

“No, I’ll be alright.” He doesn’t want Mycroft to be here if/when John returns; he doesn’t want the awkwardness that that situation would undoubtedly bring. “It’s not a danger night.” 

“Well,” Mycroft says, that polite edge returning to his voice, melting away the big brother persona. “I’m not so worried about that. You know very well that I’d know long before you made the purchase. Do call if you need something, Sherlock, but I’ll ring you later tonight to check on you anyway.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says sincerely. It’s the closest to I love you that they ever get. 

With Mycroft’s comforting voice gone from his ear, however, the flat feels quieter than before. Despite his brother’s attempts at reassuring him, he’s still certain John is going to leave him. Mycroft can promise whatever punishments he wants, but that doesn’t change the fact that ultimately, John is probably at the pub or at Harry’s or walking the streets of northwest London planning how to quietly excuse himself from Sherlock’s life. He can’t possibly want to stay with him anymore. The only thing he can do is resign himself to the fact and prepare. He can’t imagine a life without John at Baker Street: it would be meaningless, empty, soul destroying, and the reality is that without drugs he doesn’t know how he’d survive the loneliness. 

Deciding that he can think about that later, he turns the TV on to fill the flat with some sort of noise, and turns his heated blanket on. His legs are still achingly painful and his collarbone hurts, too, but those are only the loudest points of pain. If he thinks about his body for too long he realises just how much is really hurting him at any one time, and that’s not something he can really handle right now. So he switches his blanket on, he pulls one of the duvets that John tries to neatly fold at the end of the sofa so they don’t totally take over the living room and pulls it over his head and keeps it wrapped around his body so his head is poking out as he stares unseeingly at the TV. 

He’s still in that exact position when he hears the front door slam downstairs and the steady tread of John’s boots on the stairs. Immediately, he bolts upright, panicking. What is he supposed to do? They’ve had arguments before, John’s been angry and frustrated with him before but he’s never walked out. Sherlock’s never had to actually prepare himself for John to leave him before, despite how many times he’d feared it. How is he going to handle that situation? He doesn’t have long though, and John has pushed open the door to 221B before he can decide what to do. 

He closes the door softly behind him and takes off his jacket and shoes before he turns around to face Sherlock, who notes resignedly that his hesitancy to face him can only mean the worst. He’s clearly psyching himself up to let Sherlock down gently. A sharp knot of panic at the thought wraps itself around Sherlock’s stomach and all he wants is to desperately cry out: ‘please don’t leave me.’ He suspects that would be in rather poor taste, however. No point in making John feel guiltier and dragging this out. He knows that John’s just been walking around London, not settling anywhere, and Sherlock worries terribly for how cold he must be and how tired his feet probably are. He realises belatedly that that might not be his job anymore. 

Eventually, though, he turns to look at Sherlock, eyes and face completely unreadable. “Tea?” John asks fairly nonchalantly, but there’s a hint of apprehension in his voice. Sherlock nods silently, taken aback, and follows John to the kitchen with his eyes. The duvet is still wrapped tightly around him, cocooning him in its warmth, but he still feels cold. At this point he’s sure it could be summer in Arizona and he’d still find a way to be cold. After a few minutes John returns with a tray; he’s brought the two cups of tea and a plate of buttered toast for Sherlock. “You haven’t eaten since this morning,” he explains as he passes him the plate before sitting down in the chair next to the sofa and sipping his own tea. 

“Thanks,” is all Sherlock can whisper. He hadn’t realised how hungry and dehydrated he felt until he’s munching on some wholewheat toast and sipping warm, sugary tea. It reminds him painfully of just how much John looks after him; how he knows him better than he knows himself. They sit in silence for a minute or so before Sherlock realises that even if it isn’t going to make John stay, he should probably apologise anyway. That way his last memory of him won’t be his tone-deaf, stupid comment but a sincere apology. “I’m so sorry John,” he says quietly, pitch lower than he expected. “Excuses are useless and I won’t bore you with them. I shouldn’t have been so difficult, you’re right.” He has so much he wants to say but he forces the words down, feels like he’s going to choke on them. John doesn’t need to hear any pathetic rambling right now. 

As soon as he’s finished his apology John shakes his head and makes a strangled noise before slamming his cup down so hard on the side table that hot tea falls over the brim in an angry wave and drips slowly down the side of the ceramic until it pools in a ring at the bottom. Sherlock uses all the willpower he has not to flinch. “God, Sherlock,” John says, rubbing a hand across his eyes, sounding tired and frustrated. “This is not your fault, you don’t have to apologise.”

Sherlock has a lot to say to that but it’s all lodged in his chest and he’s finding it sort of hard to breathe. (It is my fault, I haven’t changed, I am a nasty piece of work, I wouldn’t want to stay with me either, please, God, don’t leave me.)

“Look,” he continues. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so fucking sorry, what I said was completely unforgivable and those stupid, cruel, and completely untrue words should never have left my mouth, shit, they shouldn’t even have been formed by my brain in the first place, alright?” This is absolutely not where Sherlock thought this was going on, and he feels sort of pinned down by the intensity of John’s sincerity. “I hope you know that I don’t really think those things. They came out in the heat of a very stupid moment, but they shouldn’t have. The last thing on earth I ever want to do is hurt you, and that’s what I did, and I can never tell you how ashamed I am of myself. I’m so sorry, Sherlock, and whatever you need is absolutely fine, okay? If you need space I can stay at Harry’s or--”

“No,” Sherlock erupts quickly, clearly catching John off guard. “Don’t go.” He’s too overwhelmed to address everything else John just shocked him with.

“Okay,” John says, relieved. “Okay, Sherlock, of course, I’ll stay.”

“You mean,” Sherlock starts, voice barely higher than a whisper, “you mean you’re not going to leave?” He so desperately wants to be wrong about earlier, he wants John to say he’ll stay, not just tonight but forever.

John looks horrified for a good moment or so before he can force his face back to normal. “Sherlock? God, of course, I’m not going to leave, did you think--?”

Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s in trouble here, if he’s said or done something wrong and he doesn’t want to do or say anything that will make John change his mind about what he just promised, so he stays stock still looking like a deer in the headlights. 

“Oh bugger me, you did,” John sighs, looking heartbroken. “God, this is my fault, I’m so sorry Sherlock, I left you here thinking I wasn’t coming home, didn’t I? Fuck.” He stands up and for a heart-stopping second Sherlock doesn’t know what’s about to happen, before John moves to sit next to him on the sofa, putting his arm around him and his cocoon and pulling him in for a tight cuddle. He doesn’t mean to, but the relief forces out the sob he’s been choking on, and he cries in John’s arms as he revels in the soft wool of his jumper against his cheek and his steady body wrapped around his. “It’s alright, love. I’m so sorry that you thought I would ever leave you, darling. I don’t know how to convince you that that just isn’t going to happen.” 

“You don’t know that,” Sherlock says, voice tangled in misery and relief. 

“Sherlock,” John says, burying his face in his curls for a second. “I do. I knew what I was getting myself into when I asked you to be mine, and that’s not going to change, okay? If anything you are way more thoughtful, kind, and mellowed out now, and I wanted you just as much when you struggled with all of those things. Nothing in this world could make me leave, alright? I was wrong in saying you haven’t changed because I know you have, I’ve seen it first hand. And you aren’t any of the other awful things I said, alright? I’ve been walking around beating myself up for everything I said, the guilt has swallowed me up inside. There isn’t a thing you could do or say that would make me want to leave, my love. I’m going to be here to nag you about nutrition and cuddle you close and bury my fingers in these gorgeous curls for as long as you’ll have me.” 

Just like that, Sherlock feels taken back to a time all those months ago when conversations like this happened almost every other night, John carefully and patiently reassuring him of his love whenever Sherlock needed it, and it’s just as effective tonight as it used to be back then. “Don’t leave,” Sherlock says, pressing his face so deep into John’s jumper it’s all he can see and smell. “Don’t ever leave me.” 

“I won’t, sweetheart,” John says. “It’s always been you and it’s always going to be you.”

“Good,” Sherlock sighs, feeling sleepy from the high emotion of the night and the warmth that John’s body is currently pooling into his own. “I’d be so lost without you, even if you are a bit of an arsehole sometimes.”

John giggles at that. “I know, I’m so sorry, love. I’ll make it up to you. I feel so lucky that I’m in love with my best friend, sometimes. Out of all the people in the world. I hope you know that,” he whispers, and Sherlock forces himself to internalise those words before he closes his eyes and drifts off, happy in the arms of his lover. 

Greg hosts a dinner party in late December to celebrate Christmas. Donovan and Anderson had been politely excluded after John not-so-politely told Greg that if they turned up, he and Sherlock would be leaving so as to avoid John spending Christmas in a holding cell. Molly’s there, though, and so is Mycroft. It turned out that Greg was the one Mycroft was dating. (That took a long time for them to wrap their heads around, and also a long time for Sherlock to get over the humiliation of not figuring it out on his own.) A few of the other detectives from Scotland Yard are there, and they’re all of enough competent intelligence that Sherlock doesn’t feel like pulling his hair out the whole evening. 

Just as they’re about to tuck into their main meal, Molly gasps, and Sherlock knows the gig is up.

“Sherlock! Is that a fucking ring?”

John just beams over at him and wraps his arm around his waist, knowing Sherlock will freeze up at the confrontation. He almost didn’t wear it, but decided that hiding just how much they love one another would be tantamount to sinning, so he left it sitting there, a bold reminder that he will spend the rest of his life with the one person who has ever made him properly happy. 

“It is,” John smiles, but he’s looking at Sherlock. “I’m going to marry this man if it’s the last thing I do.” 

Over the chorus of celebration from the other dinner guests, Sherlock looks over at John, and all he’s known and felt over the past two and a half years rushes over him in a heart-wrenching second. Finally, he has physical evidence on his left ring finger that John really isn’t going to leave him. That somebody looked at him and decided that he’s worth taking a chance on, worth loving, worth marrying, worth growing old with. Sherlock feels endlessly grateful that despite the statistical improbability, the infinitesimal chances, that person was John Watson.

I was wiser too than you had expected  
For I knew all along you were mine.

Poem to an Unnameable Man; Dorothea Lasky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title and Work Title from Pablo Neruda's Poem [Every Day You Play](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/9920/every-day-you-play/)  
> That's it! Wow, this was months of effort that sped up during lockdown and it's the longest fic I've ever written. I'm very proud of how it turned out. 
> 
> As always, here is the [Rebloggable Tumblr Post](https://effortlesslie.tumblr.com/post/626538088501477376/what-spring-does-with-cherry-trees) and I'd like to add that respectful questions about fibromyalgia, disability, and ableism that you might have after reading this fic are welcome! Also if you just want to come and chat or vent I'm here and love talking to new people, so come and spread some love :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading and hopefully I'll be back soon! All the love x


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